The Mudblood's Logic
by Cervantes Diderot
Summary: Hermione Granger was a a plain mudblood. At least until one rash action leads to her battling Voldemort first year and miraculously surviving. Stuck in a whirlwind of political ploys, fame, wealth and power along with assassination attempts Hermione has a rather difficult path. But what is that saying, "The ends justify the means," and she will do whatever it takes...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Her Demented Professor.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the material written by J.K. Rowling or her publishing company.

OOOO

"All I have is logic, Harry," Hermione said, quite motivationally if she had to say so herself, " _You_ are a true Gryffindor." Harry looked up at her with his frightened eyes, and she decided she needed to keep going, listing off everything he had that she didn't.

The muggleborn witch was surprised when a fire flashed in his eyes, "You're right Hermione, and I think I can do this." He stood taller, and Hermione was about to hand him the vial when guilt struck her straight in the gut. How could she, a no one, send Harry Potter who was the greatest beacon of hope the wizarding world had ever seen to his death?

She shook her head while wanting to vomit more in that moment than when the stench of the previous room full of dead trolls had first hit her nose. Guilt was running rampant across every part of her body causing her to notice tiny details such as how his hands trembled and his eyes were glistening, as though unshed tears were welling up behind his eyes. How could she send him to slaughterhouse, the very same one that had murdered his own parents? It was simple, she wouldn't, Hermione plainly did not lack enough moral fibers to do that to the first friend she had ever had.

What her parents would say was her primary thought but she shrugged it off, for she knew that if there was any way she wanted to go out it was to die a hero. The possibility to stop Lord Voldemort from rising and hurting muggles like her relatives was enough to go through with this. "Hermione," Harry said in a quavering voice, "I need the potion." The bushy haired witch knew he would fight her if she shared her plans so she uncapped the vial to go forwards and downed it all in one gulp. Harry stared at her in shock, and he screamed, "WHY DID YOU DO THAT?"

Hermione shook her head and merely said, "Go and help Ron to the infirmary, _I_ will face Voldemort tonight Harry. Get help while I hold him off as long as I can." Harry had gone deathly pale and almost dropped the vial that would allow him out because of his shaky grip. Harry gulped it down quickly before tossing the vial into a corner carelessly.

Quickly he pulled her into a hug while saying, "You're the smartest person I have ever met, Hermione Granger, and Voldemort doesn't know what is going to hit him." He turned to leave, but said one last thing when he was about to step out of the room, "Remember that the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor for a reason." Then he fled with the barrier making a swooshing noise as he stepped through. Hermione turned, and decided that she needed to go through the barrier before the potion wore off. Shakily she yanked out her wand, gripping it tightly, as she stepped through the black flames. Shock swiftly overtook all of her fear by strides. Quirrell stood before a large mirror that was placed in the center of the dungeon chamber they were in. Glancing around, she stepped closer to a large pillar, so that she could duck behind it when he noticed her.

It seemed as though she had just stopped moving when Quirrell, without turning said, "Miss Granger, I am quite surprised that you would come in to face me instead of Harry Potter."

Hermione was still in shock but was clever enough to fill in the pieces to the whole story herself. "It was _you_ who jinxed Harry's broom, _you_ who gave Hagrid the egg and it was _you_ who has been after the stone the whole year."

The professor released a booming laugh and said, "Who else did you think it was? Flitwick and McGonagall? Everyone except p-poor, st-stuttering Quirrell?" Hermione was ashamed to admit it, but the stuttering _was_ the primary reason that she had never assumed it was him.

"The only question that I have left is how on earth a simple mirror is preventing a mastermind such as yourself from obtaining the stone?" The girl asked sharply as she prepared to defend herself, clenching her wand firmly like the textbook on dueling she had read said she should.

The wizard turned to mirror and murmured, "I have no idea."

A voice that made her think of dead, rotting, and cold things then called out, " _Use the girl."_

Quirrell spun around and said, "Come here Granger." She stared at him as she stepped back, a malicious glint flashed in his eyes as he pointed his wand at her. "I don't like repeating myself you little mudblood," Her demented professor snarled. Hermione watched in horror as a thick set of ropes promptly flung from his wand towards her as soon as she shook her head.

She had never practiced shielding before, but now seemed to be the best opportunity. " _PROTEGO_ ," The muggleborn witch roared, and didn't stick around to watch the ropes fly back at her professor, instead flinging herself behind the pillar while desperately thinking of another spell she could use.

Flames roared passed where she had been standing a moment ago and Quirrell spoke up, "Impressive for a witch so young, Miss Granger, now come out so I can give you a lesson in real magic!" Hermione breathed in deeply as a crazy thought struck her mind, she heard Quirrell's feet tapping up the steps rapidly, yet she willed herself to go through with it silently.

She had only just read about the spell a week ago, and a first year would have to be extremely talented to pull it off. She shook her head and remembered what Harry had told her, 'The Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor for a reason.' Breathing deeply she stood against the pillar waiting until Quirrell was close enough that she could hear his short breaths. Then she pointed her wand around the pillar with a sharp jab like the book had instructed, shouting, " _CONFRINGO."_

The powerful _Blast Curse_ ripped from her wand, and she heard Quirrell mutter a weak protection spell before he was tossed like a ragdoll across the room. Stepping from her protective barrier she fired a myriad of the jinxes, hexes and curses that she knew at him, casting each one perfectly. The first few struck home until he stood, casting the counter spells. Hermione jumped behind another pillar listening to the next vile threat which spewed from his mouth.

"I should have given you more credit Granger. I thought you were an inconsequential _mudblood_. But look at that _Blast Curse_ you just pulled off; I obviously underestimated your abilities." Quirrell was pacing around the room again, and Hermione was running out of luck and ideas. The only advantage she had was the element of surprise since he no longer knew which column she stood behind. Suddenly a gust picked up, and she felt it increase in speed when Quirrell spoke again, "Come out and play little mudblood." She grimaced in fear and realized he was using some sort of _Wind Summoning Charm_ to blow her out of her hiding place.

Putting her wand in her pocket she held on tightly to the column and felt her grip begin to loosen as the wind increased to a break-neck speed. Quirrell still paced while muttering constantly in Latin, but she could barely hear him over the roar of the wind. Then she felt her right hand slip and she stumbled backwards onto the stairwell. Her head slammed into the stone, as Quirrell cast some sort of spell that made the steps flatten, so her disoriented body slid down next to his feet. The next thing she felt were ropes binding her legs tightly, and then she was levitated in front of the mirror, his wand pressed into the back of her skull.

"Look in it," he hissed in her ear, "What do you see dear mudblood?" Hermione shook in rage at how helpless she had become and she stared in the mirror. Anger continued to vibrate throughout the witch's body as her brown eyes glared murderously at the mirror. She saw herself standing free of the thick ropes with a Head Girl badge plastered on her robes. Silky hair tumbled down to her elbows while two rows of flawless teeth glimmered in her mouth. Hatred continued to pool in her stomach causing the mirror to send things spinning in a disturbing direction. When Quirrell poked his wand tip into the back of her skull urgently the rippling images finally slowed. In the mirror's reflection Hermione stood much like she had before, but now Quirrell lay on the floor. Nothing more than a tattered corpse.

Hermione's brilliant mind realized just how the horrific sights could work to her advantage. "I see…" She paused skillfully to allow the anticipation to build, "Myself with a Head Girl badge." Melodramatically she choked with widened eyes, "You are dead! Someone has… Ripped your _throat_ out!" A weight fell heavily in the pocket of Hermione's pants though she was too busy stringing Quirrell along to pay it heed.

Quirrell breathed deeply and asked, "What?" Hermione suddenly grinned, for the man had lost enough focus that she could move her head _just_ a smidge. Slamming it back she rammed him in the nose with her head, and then fell to the stone floor with a painful thud. Wasting no time as soon as the spell was broken she yanked out her wand and saw that he had fallen next to her. Blood was gushing out of his bent nose, and he snarled at her, fingering his wand as though about to slaughter her. In that instant she reacted in a purely instinctual manner, ramming her wand into his right eye ball with so much force that it exploded. Hermione tried to pull her wand back out but it twisted wrong and snapped.

They both screamed, Quirrell in agony, Hermione in absolute _terror_. Right when she thought things couldn't get any worse he slumped onto his back with the turban slipping all the way from his head.

He layed still for a moment and then, while his eyes were still closed tightly shut, his arms pushed him up. His body moved in an awkward manner, and Hermione tried to shift back as far as possible despite her bound legs. Quirrell's body had picked itself up fully, turning so it stood backwards now, revealing the most horrific thing she had ever seen in her eleven years of existence.

Her psychotic professor had two faces, which was quite fitting since he was a two faced liar. "Hello, mudblood filth," Whispered the face, "I see you are at your rightful place on the floor." Hermione quivered with indignation wishing she had stabbed this face's eyes out instead. "It is quite humorous, isn't it?" Voldemort asked in his frightening, raspy voice.

"What is?" Hermione demanded, trying to show that she wasn't frightened, even though she was. Personally, the muggleborn found that she was struggling to grasp what could _possibly_ be funny about any of the events which were transpiring.

"That your friend, Harry Potter destroyed _me_ when he was a mere infant, the greatest wizard of this age," Voldemort rasped this all bitterly.

Hermione shifted back further and stared at the darkest wizard of all recent history warily. "Dumbledore is the greatest wizard of modern British history, you don't have an ounce of his talent," Hermione hissed, spitting at his feet vehemently.

Voldemort cackled insanely, his damaged face contorting in a painful manner. "You have broken my vessel beyond repair, Miss Granger, and I fear I need a new one."

She scooted back farther and screamed, "NO." Voldemort smiled wickedly, no more words flowed from his mouth and he merely walked towards her slowly, step by step.

Gasping for breath and on the verge of a panic attack she kept moving back, further and further in an attempt to waste time and prevent him from fulfilling his awful plan. Then she stopped due to an overwhelming quantity of nausea, Voldemort seemed to be contorting, his face was twisting off of Quirrell's body. Hermione watched as Quirrell seemingly woke and arched his back, screaming in agony so pure that her head pounded in pain.

Soon her professor crumpled to the ground and convulsed as though he were having a severe seizure. Then he stopped moving, Hermione cried out covering her mouth in disgust. Voldemort drifted in the air in front of her, he looked like a large cloud of dust that had a face. The ropes that once bound her legs disappeared, presumably because their caster was now dead, and she stumbled to her feet as the spirit of Voldemort rushed after her. She jumped up the steps and pushed herself to get as far away from him as she could.

It wasn't enough however, and Voldemort rushed her, flinging himself into her body. Hermione's eyes rolled into the back of her head and the eleven year old girl collapsed backwards on the steps tumbling back to where she had just run from. Her body twisted and contorted, her body rising in the air as Voldemort attempted to possess her. Awful things ran through her mind, all of the evil things that Voldemort knew.

She wanted to cry, she wanted to vomit, but the most prominent thought running through her young and feverish mind was that she wanted Voldemort to die. She felt herself lose control of her mind, it became _his_ mind. Then went her senses, which became _his_ senses. Finally the control of her body slipped away, instantly it became _his_ body. Then she felt him tug at the magical essence that shrouded her body, her aura, and pour his own into it. Hermione screamed in defiance while her body continued to twist and writhe above the ground.

That was _her_ magic and no one would ever take it from her. Energy pulsed from her body, and Voldemort's spirit lost its hold over her after a large battle was waged inside her body. Then Hermione screamed one last time, it was different from the others though. This wail was different, so different; this scream was tinged with the victory she had just tasted. When Voldemort was ripped from her body she fell back to the ground watching as his spirit fled the dungeons.

Her eyes closed and she began to drift in and out of consciousness. The last thing she saw when she opened her eyes for the final time that evening was someone stepping through the barrier, instantly rushing to her side before everything went so woefully dark.

OOOO

Hello, please review follow, etc. If you like this idea, I don't know if it is any good yet.

Next Chapter: The Prophecy for a Mudblood.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: The Silky Voice.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the material written by J.K. Rowling or her publishing company.

OOOO

Hermione woke with a sudden start. She tried to sit up, but was so dizzy that her head fell back on the pillow. All of the places where her body had hit the stone steps ached like Merlin's balls. Her eyes hurt the first time she opened them, so she closed them, and then opened her lids again. Then she almost fell out of the bed in shock, for Albus Dumbledore sat in a chair on the side of her bed. "P-Professor Dumbledore!" She spluttered in surprise. Her professor smiled kindly, and she watched as he reached carefully for a box of Bertie Bott's every flavored beans.

She then gasped as she saw the large pile of sweets on the cart at the end of the bed. "It seems that Mr. Potter and Weasley let the details of last night slip and you have many admirers," Dumbledore said. He timidly cracked open the box, and began telling her a story about his earwax flavored bean. At first she listened to his tale with all the attentiveness required from a student of her caliber. Though slowly a dull throb began to pulse in the back of her head. Wicked emotions burned throughout her blood until the ruby liquid boiled within the scorching heat.

When Voldemort had tried to press himself into her body she could recall the thousands of whispering words. Each one viler, more contemptful than the last. Hermione was momentarily forced to close both of her brown eyes, for the mere sight of Dumbledore made the voices inflamed with black, fiery rage. "Are you quite alright, my child?" The headmaster asked concernedly. The girl did not respond, as the torrent of whispers grew into a tempestuous, screaming army. Slowly her wand hand lifted to brush the skin beneath her nose.

Dumbledore appeared more shocked than her at the river of crimson pouring from her nose. "Poppy," He called while standing to both of his feet, "Miss Granger is bleeding…" The harried old nurse bustled over to the bedside when the first scream erupted from Hermione's already raw throat. The muggleborn witch grabbed two fistfuls of bushy hair when suddenly the noises came to a very abrupt halt. Her breaths resounded within her intelligent head, as all other sounds became complete, and utter static. Then _he_ spoke, a voice that would change her life forever.

' _Prevent them from performing any more tests on your body_ ,' The voice as silky as honey commanded, ' _And the voices will stop._ ' Hermione Granger knew how moronic someone would have to be to listen to a voice in their head. Yet something made her listen. Not the threat, nor the river of blood pouring from her nose, but a premonition of sorts. This feeling in the pit of her stomach was so _different_ from anything Hermione could ever recall encountering. So she opened both eyes, and decided to live in the moment without a book telling her what to do.

"Please," Hermione croaked, surprising the two adults as well as herself. Blinking wildly she opened her mouth again, "I-I just rem-r-membered last night. It wa-s up-upsetting." The mediwitch froze, glancing towards Dumbledore for confirmation. He stroked his long, white beard while those shrewd eyes made her wish she was never born. "Please Prof6essor," She pleaded, breathing quickly for composure, "The _things_ I saw… It made me go crazy for a moment, I swear that's all."

Finally she appeared to have managed to reassured them both back into a more relaxed position. Though Dumbledore still seemed somewhat distrustful. He spent several more moments at Hermione's bedside until leaving to attend to unnamed affairs. The twelve year old hardly even mustered a farewell, as she was far too preoccupied with the thoughts dancing throughout her brilliant mind. Voldemort had tried to possess her, that was an unquestionable certainty. Hence, the presence of a voice in her mind could have been nothing but bad news.

Growing frustrated with her inability to answer any of the questions raging about her head she flipped to her side. Exhaustion shot through her body until her chocolate-brown eyes closed. However, even though Hermione Granger was now unconscious, something else lurked within her head.

OOOO

Hermione was beyond annoyed with Pomfrey, Dumbledore and Voldemort. First with Pomfrey because she was cruel to the point of refusing Harry and Ron visiting time during the day. Dumbledore for declaring that she needed more rest when she felt perfectly fine, in fact she was furious with him since she would miss out on her first End of Year Feast. Then finally Voldemort because he was a pureblood bigot who just had to go and ruin what had been a semi-happy year with possession and that damn stone.

What truly frustrated her to no end was that her confinement in the Hospital Wing meant there was no chance of going to the library. The library, her home away from home, could no doubt answer at least _some_ of the questions raging within her skull. Slowly the girl came to realize that her proclivity for doing as adults told her to would accomplish very little. So with grave reluctance Hermione decided to take a risk which would have made even Ron proud. When Madame Pomfrey's back was turned the girl jumped from the bed, pulled on a pair of cotton robes resting neatly on the nightstand, and raced into the halls of Hogwarts.

She didn't stop when the mediwitch called loudly after her, nor even when her battered body started to ache. Hermione only came to a halt when both of her shoeless feet smacked within the bounds of the library. Bookshelves towered high above the girl's head while books flew through the air like birds. Letting loose a breath of relief she noted that Madam Pince was absent, presumably spoiling the end of term feast with her foul attitude. Now free to move much more slowly she perused the different bookshelves carefully. Herbology, astronomy, transfiguration, none of it mattered to her as she slunk deeper towards the more advanced selections.

Her brown eyes searched desperately for anything on possession until she finally found it. One book on a shelf located right outside the Restricted Section. Carefully Hermione pulled the tome out, and began to read the dusty pages. Possession, it claimed, was an art which required more precision than potion making. Only the most desperate of Dark wizards were willing to even dream of undertaking the tricky bit of magic. Many more useless details passed before the measly book came to a premature end. The muggleborn was about to slam it right back onto the shelf when something caught her eye. A reference page listing numerous, obviously _darker_ books all focused on possession.

She glanced at the Restricted Section, wondering if there was any time to search for extra reading materials. Unfortunately Hermione was forced to decide against any such course of action. It was now late in the evening, and the feast would be ending sooner than she wanted. Turning back to the book before her the twelve year old realized she needed to do something unforgivable. The sound of the reference page being ripped from the book made her ears practically bleed, but there was no time to lament the crime she had committed. Hermione slid the book back into its respective spot before fleeing the library.

The hallways were deathly silent. In an effort to keep herself from thinking the girl started to hum her favorite song from the muggle world. Instead of heading back towards the Hospital Wing Hermione marched towards the Gryffindor common room. She finally came to a stop in front of the Fat Lady's portrait. "Pig Snout." The hinges creaked slightly as the portrait swung open to allow her entry. Hermione stepped into the luxurious common room appreciating the sense safety which practically rose like heat from all of the red colors.

Deciding that it would be best to go to sleep before her classmates returned Hermione wasted no time marching up the steps. By the time everyone was trudging in from the feast the muggleborn had showered, and fallen into an exhausted slumber. The reference pages stuffed beneath her pillow where no one could possibly discover what she had done to an innocent book.

OOOO

The girl sat up awake at five in the morning feeling sort of refreshed after her previous day. Her roommates lay sprawled across their beds nowhere near ready to wake up. Quietly so that they wouldn't stir she packed for the next hour and was relieved when she finally managed to neatly tuck her personal library inside its confines. She would need a _much_ larger trunk before she could even consider coming back to Hogwarts.

Stepping out of the room on her tip toes the girl shut the door to the dormitory with a gentle click. Then she fled out of the common room before anyone would have a chance to catch her. She felt bad for not waiting until Ronald and Harry woke up but who knew how long that would take. Hopefully she could catch up with them at breakfast though. It was at least six-thirty in the morning by the time she arrived at her most secret of spots.

Few students ever bothered visiting the docks, all except for her of course. At the beginning of the year when everyone refused to even look her way Hermione spent excessive amounts of time staring at the Black Lake while writing essays. Then she befriended _the_ Harry Potter, and found herself with no more need for a hiding place. Now the muggleborn found that she missed the days when no one had been willing to befriend her bookish self. At least then possession wasn't the chief most thought on her mind, nor could be she be called a book mutilator.

Hermione sat there for a very long time. Occasionally a Hippocampus, or bird would catch her attention. Then finally she jerked out of her haze. It had to have been at least ten in the morning, and she cursed herself for almost missing breakfast. In a wave of bushy hair the girl dashed up to the castle leaving the docks behind. She soon regretted ever believing that breakfast was worth dealing with the staring. The only news more prevalent than the fact that Gryffindor had won the cup was Hermione herself. The morning light shined through the windows of the castle and as she walked towards the Great Hall she felt the last shreds of anonymity burned away.

Other students were scrambling to the Great Hall for breakfast and they all stared at her as she passed. Hermione blushed fiercely, Harry and Ron had leaked exactly what had happened to everyone in the school and she was almost as big of a celebrity as her best friend. The-muggleborn–who-fought-Voldemort-and-lived, was her unofficial and very long, new title. Despite the stares she managed to make it into the Great Hall and ran straight to Harry and Ron. Both looked tired and were eating ravenously, but put their utensils down as she slid into the spot across from them. "How does it feel to have everyone asking you for an autograph Granger?" Asked Harry with a grin.

"Awful really, Potter," The girl sighed as she spread some butter on toast and piled it with bacon, eggs and leftover roast beef from the feast last night. All around her people were finishing, but she had no intention of leaving for that dreadfully long train ride without a full stomach. Harry and Ron finished, just as she had gulped the contents of her third glass of Pumpkin Juice, and were heaving their trunks to a standing position.

Hermione followed closely after them comforted by the silence that surrounded their trio as they left the castle. It was nice to be around people who didn't ask for an autograph, or stare at her like a statue. By the time they had reached the carriages to Hogsmeade she was finished with her mountainous meal. All three of them sat and watched from the window as Hogwarts vanished in the early morning mist. Then Ron began to talk to Harry about the Holyhead Harpies and Cannons. She sighed, and wished she had thought to take a book out from her overstuffed trunk.

The carriage came to a stop along with those of the other First Years and Hermione heaved her trunk out before Ron and Harry. All four of them trudged into Hogsmeade admiring the array of magical shops. Hermione noted the Ollivander's located near the train station mentally remembering that she was in need of a new one. As they walked towards the platform all of the nostalgia for that first night hit her like a bag of bricks, and she told Harry and Ron as much. All three, even Ron, fell into a serene moment of profound silence contemplating how much their worlds had changed in one year at Hogwarts.

They were quick to enter when the doors were finally opened, and were just moving into a compartment when two, third year boys grabbed her shoulder. "Can we have an autograph?" They begged. Hermione trembled angrily wishing that they would leave, for it felt entirely wrong. Third years shouldn't be staring at her as though she were the incarnation of Merlin. It should be the other way around. Yet, as she thought back on it she would never regret stepping into that dungeon, especially so long as it meant Harry continued to live.

"Oi, mates, leave her alone," Said the most handsome boy she had ever seen, "She clearly doesn't want two gaping fish asking for an autograph." The two boys turned tomato red and followed him shamefully as he walked passed her compartment. Hermione didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that he didn't look at her whatsoever as he left. Trying to forget it she sat down with Ron and Harry, so that they could share their summer plans.

OOOO

The train came to a grinding halt, and no one, but Hermione was happier for it. During the journey people had pressed their faces against the glass to catch a glimpse of the muggleborn-who-lived. Harry got some attention though not even a quarter as much as Hermione. In fact, so many people barged in the compartment for autographs that she borrowed Harry's reluctant wand to ward _Lock Spells_ on the sliding door. Upon their arrival to King's Cross Station Harry cast an _Unlocking Charm_ marking their departure from the train.

Ronald introduced them to his parents before all parties involved watched as Harry was carted off by his atrocious family. Hermione had been suspicious during the year that Harry didn't have the best home life, but this just confirmed it. After Mrs. Weasley made her promise to visit in the future, and Ronald bid her farewell, she ran to her own parents hugging them both tightly. "How was your year?" Asked her father, for apparently she had gotten so caught up with End of Year Exams that she had forgotten to write them for three weeks.

She blushed responding with a quick, "Good." Then she towed them from the train station before any nosy classmates could ask for an autograph. When she was finally in the car the witch reclined into her seat feeling more relaxed than she ever had before.

OOOO

Thank you so very much to every single person who reviewed or followed. I have never had that explosive of a response from any of my fanfic stories and I appreciate it so much. I feel like except for the Prophecy this chapter was rather weak but don't worry.

Next chapter things will spice up and there will be lots of magic. I really enjoy wand choosing scenes and I have a really swell one planned. Finally, as for the pairing I was planning on making it more of a Tom/Hermione/Cedric thing with Harry as more of a friend. Anything can happen though and there won't be any real romance until she is at least a third year. I think of Harry as more of a brother to her but it isn't as bad of a pairing as Ron/Hermione though.

 ***This chapter has been revised.**

Next Chapter: Muddy Honey.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Muddy Honey.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the material written by J. K. Rowling or her publishing company.

OOOO

Hermione stumbled from her cozy bed and yawned, stretching her back. Looking around she decided to get dressed first, and then go downstairs, tossing on a grey sweater along with her favorite pair of jeans. Tripping into her socks as she stepped out her door the girl walked down the hallway of her family's' second floor skipping down the steps into the living room. "Hermione, dear," Her mother called loudly from the kitchen. Hermione stepped into the room taking in the sight of her father in a suit, sipping coffee, while her mother whipped up breakfast on the stove, also dressed to her best.

"We just got a call sweetheart," Her father apologized, "The dental convention needs us for two weeks instead of one, another instructor fell ill, and they promised to pay us triple the original offer."

Hermione nodded sadly, as she had been looking forwards to spending lots of time with her family, "It is fine, you should go. I don't want you both to miss this opportunity."

Her mother fiddled with her earring before saying, "It should be fine here darling, your grandmother Cordelia is coming to watch you while we are gone."

Hermione's eyes grew wide while she demanded in a harsh tone, "Why does that woman have to come?"

Her father's face grew furious as her mother nervously and quite visibly anticipated the row. "That is your grandmother and I suggest you treat her with a little respect."

Hermione scoffed, her eyes narrowing even more, "Respect? I will give her respect when she doesn't call me a, 'little beaver,' at family holidays."

Her father snarled, "Hermione, she is old and senile, you cannot continue to hold a grudge against her."

A loud _thud_ echoed across the room as Hermione stamped her foot onto the kitchen floor angrily, "She mailed me a bloody dog dish for my last birthday, a DOG DISH."

Her father stood, "This is the end of our conversation, maybe you can learn to get along while we are away." Then he fled to start the car without another word on the matter, as her mother dished breakfast onto a plate before handing it off to her.

"Eat darling," The woman urged, "You have the day to yourself until she gets here." Then her mother left with a very tight hug. When the front door closed a few minutes later Hermione huffed in frustration. Tossing the plate on the table she snatched an orange from the counter before stepping into the foyer. Waiting for her parents to drive away from the house the girl pulled on her shoes while retrieving a grey sweater from her bedroom. Paying careful attention to the time she took several minutes to eat her orange. When the last slice was swallowed Hermione bustled from the house.

Quickly she opened the front door glancing at her watch, it was ten in the morning exactly. The witch locked her door, and stepped onto the street quickly. The morning was bright while a gentle summer breeze drifted across her childhood neighborhood. In the distance children could be heard laughing together joyfully. Then out of nowhere a large, purple, double-decker bus stopped in front of her. The door whipped open as a man with far too many pimples stepped out.

"Are you a Miss Hermione Granger?" He asked prompting Hermione to nod curtly. "Step right on," The man grinned as she flicked a galleon into his hand. The bus instantly jerked forwards causing her to collapse into onto one of the beds that it contained. A shrunken head at the front of the bus was spinning around wildly spouting terse directions at the driver. It was a rather dizzying experience that she could have done well without. A frightening man with talons and snake eyes stared at her hungrily from across the bus, and she decided she was quite excited for a new wand.

A shiver crept across her spine as she recalled precisely how she had lost her last one. Then the bus jerked to a final stop causing her to scream as she was launched off of her bed to the floor. "Diagon Alley," The head cackled hysterically, Hermione was not impressed, and she stood shakily, stepping off the bus quickly. Stanley Shunpike thanked her for her service, but the witch made a point not to thank him for his. No sooner had she stepped off than the bus darted around a corner at breakneck speed while smoke was left rising from the street.

"It is well past time I register for our fireplace to be connected to the floo network," She mused to herself aloud. Then on still wobbly legs she ambled into the Leaky Cauldron. No one noticed her as she walked through and with a pang in her heart she remembered that soon she would not have that luxury anymore. After what felt like eternity she managed to push through the stifling hot bar, finally making it onto the crisp street of Diagon Alley. For it being a weekday morning the ancient place of wizarding commerce was unusually busy.

Pureblood matriarchs bustled in groups in front of the robe stores twisting their lips at her muggle attire as she passed. Hermione Granger on the other hand didn't even spare them a single, unsavory grimace in response. Hogwart's students she recognized pointed her out to their parents confirming in excited whispers that she was indeed the muggle born who had saved Hogwarts. She just wanted it all to stop, especially the street peddlers who were incessantly pushing their goods on her.

Then finally she reached it, Ollivander's Wand Shop, and as she pushed open the door to its cool interior she felt relieved. No prying eyes, no hushed whispers, nor any of the admiring glances which never failed to make her stomach churn. Her steps echoed faintly across the store as she approached the counter slowly. Hesitantly she rang the shiny, silver bell, listening to it ring clearly and sighing in relief as it pierced through her thoughts momentarily. Then Hermione jumped back in startlement, Ollivander appeared into existence when she had closed her eyes for not even a full second.

"I was wondering when I would see you again," He smiled, as his twinkling eyes blinded her, "Miss Granger." Hermione was unnerved by the wand maker, but she had always been fascinated by him all the same. Just the thought of how much knowledge he withheld from the world made her shiver eagerly; as though he were a book she could read cover to cover. "I had a feeling that you would be here again soon." Ollivander smiled knowingly at her and Hermione felt that strange shiver yet again cover her spine.

"Are your, 'feelings,' always so quick to come true sir?" She asked as her shoulders tensed. He only smiled even wider and spun towards his shelves, rifling through boxes.

"One hears so many whispers in the wizarding world Miss Granger," He sighed in what she thought was exasperation. Then he spun from his shelf handing her an open box, the wand inside gleamed with a sparkling, mahogany tone. She pulled it from the box before giving it a little flick, the shop began to shake, so she shoved it back into the box before Ollivander could make a single move.

He mumbled under his breath pulling out more boxes, setting them on the counter. As Hermione tried them she spoke, "What whispers have you heard, Mr. Ollivander? Hopefully nothing too… Colorful." Ollivander stared at her with his pale eyes prompting her to realize that he did not seem surprised in the least at her ability to match him in his game of wits.

"Why Miss Granger," He intoned, as he handed her another wand, "They are not colorful in the least, but incredibly Dark." Hermione decided that she was getting nowhere with him by playing in his circles, perhaps a more direct approach was necessary? Glittering green spores fell from the wand she was gripping, and mushrooms erupted around her feet.

"What are you trying to tell me Mr. Ollivander?" She demanded, growing more frustrated at every wand that failed to choose her. Then when she passed back the wand she realized just how many they had gone through, almost the entire store truthfully.

"That is all of them," He explained tiredly, then something flashed in his eyes and he said, "Wait just a moment more Miss Granger." Then he murmured speculations under his breath as he fled to the back of the store. Hermione slumped into the counter and watched as the wand boxes floated back to their original positions. As the seconds turned into minutes and soon the minutes turned into half an hour she tapped her fingers rapidly against the counter. When ten, whole minutes were gone he returned cradling a fresh looking box in his arms.

Smiling at the muggleborn Ollivander set the oblong box on the counter with a short description. "Phoenix feather, Aspen, twelve and ½ inches long." His spidery fingers prised the lid off gently until the magical stick was revealed to her eyes. "Pick it up," The man urged, "See if it is a match, Miss Granger…" From the look of certainty in his pale eyes Hermione could tell he believed this would be the wand for her. Pinching the flesh of her left thumb with her index fingernail nervously she snatched the wood in her right hand.

Blood-red sparks spit out of the wand tip per usual, but Hermione felt like something wasn't quite right. "Mr. Ollivander," She protested, "When I got my last wand it felt like a gust of wind. Ripping right through my body. I didn't feel anything just now." The man's eyes grew hard as stone for a fraction of a second before turning enigmatically warm once more, causing the witch to wonder if she was imagining things.

His answer was surprisingly terse. "The first time one is chosen by a wand is a momentous event. Imaginations run wild impacting children's memory of the process. Especially for muggleborns." Looking back Hermione wished that she had criticized him for his snappish tone, or gone to Jimmy Kiddel's Wand Emporium instead of Ollivander's. But Hermione Granger was an obedient child, so she payed him twelve galleons for the not-quite-right-wand then exited the store.

She would learn the hard way to trust her instinct, however.

OOOO

Her peaceful, and quiet, thinking time as she ambled through the alley was just what she needed. Of course, every few seconds a witch or wizard holding a Daily Prophet would stop and stare at her, but she brushed it off as part of wizarding oddity. When she passed by a Daily Prophet stand she was stopped by the man who worked it. "Hermione Granger," He called, "Don't you want a copy of the paper today?" Hermione whirled around, how could this Daily Prophet man know her name, unless…

"Yes," She practically snarled, as she snatched a copy he was waving from his hand. Plastered across the front of the paper was, "Hermione Jean Granger: A Muggleborn Who Lived." Hermione scoffed at that, and scoffed even more violently when she saw it was written by that tosspot named Rita Skeeter. "The wizarding world has assumed that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was vanquished since his disappearance twelve years ago. Yet the Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was blatantly and viciously invaded by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named right before the end of this term. An inside source told us that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was confronted by one twelve year old Hermione Granger and the school shook as though there was an earthquake from the intensity of their magical power.

Our hero spent almost an entire week asleep in the hospital wing of Hogwarts and woke up right before the end of term. Not only should this witch be honored with a wizarding holiday but Minister Cornelius Fudge has taken it upon himself to bestow upon this brave young witch a honor of Merlin first class for her extraordinary courage and magical prowess. Wizards closely associated with Albus Dumbledore have protested the award and argue that she has done very little to earn her new title (See page seven for, "Declining Dumbledore.").

Yet at a Wizengamot council meeting a faction of wizarding families demanded it be awarded nonetheless and overpowered his attempts. (Turn page for more)."

There was more, much more, but Hermione could not stand to read it. She felt nauseated now that she knew why everyone was staring at her. "Can I sign up for a subscription?" She asked the man in a wobbly voice, deciding that this would be the best way for her to keep up with the news of Dumbledore's attempts to quash her newfound fame.

He merely pushed a list to her, and she signed up shoving four galleons at him in payment. Then she spun backwards, promptly fleeing from the direction she had just turned because of a man begging for an autograph. Several similar encounters passed like this, with the muggleborn witch avoiding anyone who approached her until she found herself alone on an empty street. Breathing a sigh of relief the girl read the arrow signs carefully in order to find her next destination. Knockturn Alley.

Following the posted directions right through a sketchy, brick maze, Hermione quickly deduced that this was an unsavory area. Upon exiting the winding tunnel into a dark street she was greeted by the sight of a Hag bartering secretively with a Vampire over what must have been an illicit substance. Suddenly cold she pulled her grey sweater tighter around her body. During her year at Hogwarts Hermione learned many things from not only her treasured books, but her peers as well. One day she had been reading an article about increasingly frequent raids on Knockturn Alley, an older Gryffindor was all too eager to share with her the alley's seedy reputation.

Right when Hermione tugged at her sweater pocket the reference pages crinkled loudly. The noise managed to remind her why she was in the terrifying place in the first place. No respectable shop in Diagon Alley would sell any useful books on possession. Perhaps Knockturn Alley living up to its reputation would not be quite so bad, Hermione mused mirthfully to herself. Avoiding the homeless wizards practically pouring out of dark corners she came to a stop before Moribund's.

All of the stores were seemed terrifyingly inclined towards the dark, but this one was a bit more in her comfort zone. Hermione could see shelves of books through the dusty windows, and any store which sold books deserved at least a chance. So steeling herself the girl opened the door to find herself in a store which rivalled Flourish and Blotts in content. Except where Flourish and Blotts sold lighter material this store's shelves practically crawled with black magic. Feeling colder than she had outside Hermione slowly made her reluctant way up to where the clerk sat at the counter.

The clerk was a portly woman wearing gaudy, crimson robes that revealed _far_ too much cleavage. Her heavily made-up eyes widened in hungered recognition as soon as Hermione approached. "Yer that Mudblood 'oo lived, isn't ya?" The woman chortled, "Tha' fancy, schmancy prophet plastered yer picture all o'er the 'eadlines, they did!" Hermione flinched at being called a mudblood, but more so at the rude reminder that the prophet had _somehow_ gotten a picture of her.

Unable to even find the words to respond to the vulgar witch Hermione retrieved the reference pages. "I need these books, or any related subject matter you can find in this establishment," Her voice was sharp like a whip. The woman picked the pages up from the glass counter whistling in mock-amazement, as her dirty fingers stained the formerly pristine papers.

"Possession," The beastly woman asked Hermione snidely, "What is 'n ugly mudblood needing t' know 'bout that?"

"Are you usually in the habit of asking clients so many questions?" Hermione snapped fiercely, shocking herself immensely. Though, the normally collected girl supposed she was too sick of being treated like filth by inbred purebloods to bother with a polite tone. "There are more book sellers in Britain, would you like me to visit them instead?" The portly witch shot the girl a dirty sneer before waddling into the bookshelves with a prideful tipping of her nose into the air. Hermione tapped her fingers on the counter until the woman returned with at least twenty books floating behind her.

"That'll be a bit 'ore 'n seven-'undred Galleons," She told Hermione, who instantly felt her stomach drop to her toes.

"I definitely don't have enough money to pay for those books," The girl admitted reluctantly. Instead of getting kicked out of Moribund's for pennilessness, however, the disgusting clerk began to snicker.

"You ain't the smartest mudblood 'round," She cackled quite wickedly, "Are ya? The prophet said ya was gonna be given 'at fancy, Merlin Award." Hermione wondered what the award, which she didn't really plan on accepting in the first place, had to do with her inability to pay. "Which means, my muddy honey," The clerk cooed in a truly revolting manner, "You will be given that award 'o fifty-thousand Galleons." Hermione could only watch as the witch flicked her wand prompting the books to bag themselves. "So, when you get your money, remember t' pay me," She smiled sharply, "Or I'll tell everyone _just_ what ye was tryin' ter buy."

The muggleborn girl could hardly believe her own ears, and was certainly unwilling to look such a gift dead in the eye. Her fingers grabbed at the bags swiftly, but her escape was not quite as smooth. When her hand was twisting the door handle the woman spoke once more, "Keep actin' like yer better 'an us all, mudblood, but remember that dirt is hard to wash off…" Hermione slammed the door behind her before the cackles of laughter hit her already wounded ears.

OOOO

Dark magic was dangerous. That one, little phrase synopsized everything the muggleborn witch had ever read in the Hogwarts library. Entire collections of books detailed within her mind reminding the girl of what happened to those who immersed themselves in the Dark Arts. But the unfortunate truth, as she learned firsthand, was that sometimes one had no choice when it came to black magic. Sometimes a voice appeared in one's head, and the victim often wished they had been more willing to at least try to learn what the light stood against.

So, Hermione Granger decided to hit up several more stores before night fell, and over the course of shopping used up all of her leftover Galleons from shopping that previous summer. Borgin Burkes had a runic blade that was used to summon spirits. At the Starry Prophesizer she found a holographic star chart that mapped the movement of billions of stars that she was excited to use for Astronomy research. Then she moved on to the Speckled Snare which was an Herbology store that sold seeds of risque plants in tightly sealed packages to prevent any, 'accidents', from happening.

Mulpepper's Apothecary was her final stop. Within were thousands of bottles of advanced ingredients, as well as an impressive number of potion's books. She purchased a reference book of ingredients which offered a much greyer perspective on potions than she had ever been given before. Hermione purchased the book realizing that there were now only a few, spare Knuts in her pocket. Stepping into the night air she set her bags down for a second in order to zip up her coat. Night had descended upon Knockturn Alley along with a bone chilling cold. Making sure the handle of her wand was within easy reach Hermione marched right back through the brick tunnel once again.

Something very unwelcome stood in her way, however. The snake-man who was on the Knight Bus earlier that day waited in the mouth of the tunnel. Hermione realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that the alley was much less crowded, perhaps one could even say it was deserted. She stared at the frightening thing and watched as it snarled at her, his teeth black and sharp as daggers. "Step aside," She demanded, dropping her bags to her side, wrenching her not-quite-wand free, "Move, or I will blast you to hell where you belong." The beast grinned at her stepping forwards, and for the first time she noticed the sharp talons on his fingers.

"The Dark Lord gives you his best wishes, mudblood," It snarled fiercely with ominous, glowing yellow eyes. She knew that this would turn into a full blown battle and was unhappy that the Tracking Charm didn't work in such magical places. Nobody would catch wind of her battle and she could very well die a painful death.

Hermione pushed herself against the wall and as his hand slashed downwards to tear her into muggleborn ribbons she said clearly, "Protego." A weak, shield erupted from the tip of the shaking wand. The Snakeman's clawed hand faced enough resistance that Hermione was able to try to run from him. Her jacket's hood was suddenly wrenched back causing her feet to skid on the dirty ground. The beast did not let go, pulling back with so much force that Hermione was choking for air desperately. Using the last of the oxygen in her frazzled brain she unzipped the piece of clothing before slipping to the hard ground.

Gasping as her barely healed body ached with a fresh round of agony Hermione scrambled around to face her adversary. The practically useless wand clattered in her palm. Those disgusting, yellow eyes stared emotionlessly down at her. Breaths started to wrack throughout Hermione's body until all that filled her head were the shallowest of thoughts. Tears began to leak out of her eyes when she realized that a Snakeman would slaughter her, in Knockturn Alley no less. Would the ministry be able to identify her mangled corpse? Would her parents ever even know what happened to her?

' _Stupid mudblood_ ,' A dangerously familiar voice whispered in her head, ' _Grab the knife._ ' Hermione blinked while the monster's boots scraped forwards. ' _THE KNIFE_ ,' Came a brain-splitting scream, ' _YOU BLITHERING, IMBECILIC MUDBLOOD_.' The loud reminder jump started the girl into action. Hissing at the throbbing in her head she launched herself towards the bag from Borgin and Burke's. Tearing through the tissue paper she just wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the knife when a powerful blow sent her rolling into the brick wall.

She blinked dazedly while bile threatened to pour from her mouth. In the corner of her eye a sharp set of claws flew downwards to put her out of her misery, but Hermione was prepared. The knife went through the thing's scaled forearm causing it to stumble backwards. Pointing the wand straight at him, despite what must have been six cracked ribs, Hermione choked out, "Flipendo." A weak series of sparks was just enough to send the wounded beast somersaulting into the shadows. Shaking with adrenaline the twelve year old grabbed all of her bags before tripping from the brick maze into Diagon Alley.

Two, yellow eyes glared at her back with venom the whole way.

OOOO

 ***This chapter has been revised.**

Thanks for reading! Please review, etc. You know the whole deal! The response to this story has literally been explosive and I could not be happier with all of your reception to it. A tiny review would mean the world to me and would help me improve this story! I hope you enjoyed this new chapter.

Next Chapter: Grandmum Knows Best!


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Grandmum Knows Best.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the material written by J. K. Rowling or her publishing company.

OOOO

Hermione Jean Granger did not know what to think, as she sped towards the public floo on Diagon Alley. Her bags were weighing her down, and she gasped for breath internally deciding she should go running more in the future. Looking over her shoulder she saw that no horrific beasts were in pursuit, so she leaned against the fireplace, tossing her head back onto the refreshingly cool surface. Then she allowed herself to actually think about what had previously transpired.

That Snake-Man had been an assassin, hired by Lord Voldemort to kill her, that much was obvious. She shuddered before looking around; Hermione Granger could not fathom how Voldemort could even hire any assassins after the state she had left him in. But then another thought popped into her head, why was he so desperate to annihilate her when he himself had recognized her as a worthless mudblood? His assassin hadn't even been forced to really try killing her, and he would have succeeded if it were not for that voice.

Not even ready to begin thinking of the voice, or her possible possession, Hermione pulled one of the Knuts from her pocket. Shaking her bushy head of hair the muggleborn inserted the currency into the slot of the public fireplace before a pile of floo powder filled the dispenser. Shifting all the bags to one hand while sticking the joke of a wand back in her pocket, deciding _that_ warranted inspection later as well, Hermione scooped the substance in her hand carefully. Stepping in the fireplace she breathed deeply for a moment to prevent anything from causing her voice to wobble.

"Granger residence," Hermione said firmly while throwing the powder down to her feet. Green flames ripped into existence engulfing her entire body. Hermione seemed to fly through a dark pit, and barely managed to spin out from her parent's fireplace as she was tossed out. Before the green flames had even roared back to nothing the witch noticed a presence in the room. Her warm brown eyes met a pair that were the exact same shade, yet very cold.

Her grandmother Cordelia sat in an armchair, a glass of Hermione's parent's expensive wine clutched in her hand. "Well, my dear little beaver, I suppose we have quite a lot to discuss." Hermione shifted her hips stonily setting her bags down, while clutching at her bruised midsection to prevent from showing any pain. Her grandmother's eyes flicked to the labels on one of the bags, and she smirked mirthfully, "Knockturn Alley, little beaver?" Hermione's eyes widened in shock, as she stared at the woman who had treated her more like a family pet than grand-daughter her whole life.

"How do you-," Hermione began to ask slowly when Cordelia Granger interrupted her.

"One of your professors sent me a letter detailing your extensive academic achievements in Hogwarts earlier this year; we both know you are clever enough to figure this out on your own, beaver." The woman stood, setting her wine glass on the table as Hermione tried to figure out how her supposedly muggle grandmother knew about the wizarding world.

"Dad and Mum didn't know anything when I got my letter," Hermione speculated, "But you know professors at Hogwarts. So that means Dad must not have any magic which would make him a squib?"

Her grandmother goaded her on with that same, nasty grin, "You can do better than that, especially after what I read in the Daily Prophet. The-Muggleborn-Who-Lived, they all are calling you, I'm sure one needs _some_ brains to battle the Dark Lord..." Hermione seethed internally, and continued analyzing for the answers her grandmother refused to give her.

"The only possible conclusion is that you are a witch," Hermione inferred, "Because if you were a squib it would have been considered a grave embarrassment during the era in which you were born, and your family would have discarded you, hence leaving you with no knowledge of your background."

Cordelia stared at Hermione coldly, "I suppose you are a clever, little beaver."

Said little beaver snapped back in a biting voice, "I have made far too many deductions myself, now it is well passed time for you to give me the answers I am owed."

Her grandmother glared at her like no grandmother should, hissing, "I owe you no answers little beaver, in fact I came here out of the goodness of my heart." Hermione scoffed in disbelief at the audacity this loathsome, old Hag displayed.

Her grandmother continued, "I read that article in the Daily Prophet about how the only little witch in my bloodline defeated the Dark Lord. I was impressed and concerned for my newest treasure, so I contacted Dumbledore and was shaken by the response I was given." Her grandmother stared at her coldly and she shivered, "Not only was he trying to keep you in the shadows like a good little pawn in his political games, but he sent you home with no protection whatsoever."

The bushy haired girl looked at her grandmother in surprise when she thought she recognized concern, but then it was gone in a flash. The muggleborn supposed her grandmother had a point there; a monster had just tried to assassinate her after all. "I decided that I needed to intervene before you fell to his manipulations," Her grandmother chided, "It is time I groom you into the proper little witch I never saw any point in crafting. Before you go to accept your honor of Merlin, and make our ancestors proud."

OOOO

Hermione was then practically pushed to the dining room, and shoved into a chair. "Would it kill you to throw some sleakeazy on your mess of a head for once," Her grandmother snarled in annoyance. Then Hermione watched as the woman poured more wine into her glass from a bottle on the counter. "You must be perfect when you greet the minister in front of the Wizarding World for your award," Cordelia began, "Not only will this be your unveiling to the wizarding world, but it will mark my return." Hermione knew better than to ask her grandmother why she had left in the first place.

"In fact, we should probably do something about that face," Her grandmother said softly, running a condescending finger down Hermione's features. Cordelia suddenly grabbed Hermione's jaw, and forcefully spread it open inspecting the buck teeth that sat there. The girl tried to protest, but her grandmother had what looked like a yew wand pointed in front of her face, "Reducio." The Shrinking Charm was shot into Hermione's front teeth, much to her utter displeasure, and stopped only when her teeth had shrunk to what her grandmother called the, 'perfect size.' Angrily Hermione shot back from her grasp while rocketing up from the chair.

That one spell had pushed her to lose the little respect she had never held for her grandmother in the first place. "Listen girl," Snarled the woman, yew wand still held aloft, "I am helping you the best that I can."

Hermione cut her off and pulled her own wand out, unsure whether she planned to curse the woman or hex her, "Helping me by barging into this house, announcing you're a witch, and telling me I am ugly?"

The woman shook her mane of graying blonde hair and said in a cold cutting voice, "Every bit of the beauty, strength, and magic that lies within your blood must be brought to the surface for all to see, Hermione. For when it comes time for you to receive your award you will be thrust into a world where nothing else will matter. Where families older than Merlin will tear you down, and disregard you as a mudblood."

Cordelia stood there, in the aftershock of her outburst of passion, then she slammed the glass down on the table so hard Hermione was surprised it didn't break. "I am retiring for the evening," Then she began walking for the door, "I suggest you do so as well since the first of many lessons will begin tomorrow for you." Then the she strode from the kitchen and presumably up towards the guest bedroom. Hermione collapsed back into the chair gasping as she poked and prodded her now short teeth. The most prominent thought in her clever little head, besides the fact that her grandmother was a witch, was that the woman had just used her real name, instead of calling her Beaver.

OOOO

Hermione had fallen fast asleep on the table, and woke with a scream as a very heavy book was slammed down near her head. Her grandmother stood in a deep, blue pair of robes with her graying blonde hair pulled into a long braid. Her wrinkles were as always not present and Hermione wondered how she was sixty. The woman pointed to the book on the table explaining, "That is the Blood Directory, or what some call The Sacred Twenty-Eight. Almost half the pureblood families worth knowing are in there."

Hermione looked at the dusty, old book, and felt disgust well up in her stomach, "Is your family in there."

"Nice try," Cordelia chuckled darkly, "I am glad you are showing your cunning today, it is a much better change from your angry mumbling last night."

Hermione brushed off that comment, and asked indignantly, "Wouldn't it make things easier if I were able to say what wizarding family I descend from?" Her grandmother chuckled once again, but this time she acted as though what Hermione said was actually funny.

"A muggleborn is defined as the product of two non-magical parents, Beaver, which is all they will ever see you as; you will never be considered a half blood." The girl opened her mouth, but was swiftly silenced, "Now back to the book," Her grandmother said, "You will read about three families every night, and I will quiz you every morning."

Hermione nodded reluctantly, "Fine." It made her stomach drop every time she gave in to her grandmother.

The muggleborn girl reached over to grab her new wand noticing out of the corner of her eye the manner in which Cordelia was staring at it. A very forceful hand clamped down on Hermione's wrist, as her grandmother hissed, "Put. It. Down." Shocked by the intensity of the situation the twelve year old did as she was commanded watching the stick roll gently on the tabletop. "You got this from Ollivander's yesterday, didn't you?" Cordelia hissed venomously. Hermione could only nod mutely in the face of so much tumultuous rage. "I could spot one of these a mile away, a tracker wand," Her face contorted with more fury at the word tracker.

"When those involved with the Dark Lord went to purchase new wands they were given fake ones," The woman continued to lecture. "Trackers had two purposes, the first to report all usage of magic back to the Ministry. The second was meant to ensure the individual would fall in battle, for the cores used in these wands are supremely weak."

"Are you saying that Ollivander, one of the most famous wandmakers of all time gave me-." She was cut off abruptly.

"Yes, he gave you a Tracker wand, on the order of none other than Albus Dumbledore." Cordelia interrupted haughtily. "Which means that a shopping trip is desperately in order." Hermione was then grabbed by the shoulder in a very tight grip, as her grandmother apparated them away to an unknown destination. Light, space, and noise merged into one as Hermione was squeezed through time itself. When she thought her heart would explode both of her feet were thrown onto a hard, cobbled street.

Heavy breaths racketed through the girl's chest while she tried to keep down the bile rising in her upset stomach. "Up," Cordelia snapped sharply, "You better get used to apparition soon. We will be using it quite a bit." Holding in a bitter retort Hermione stood up straight once more while glaring at her grandmother's head. Then she started to examine her surroundings with a look of mild surprise. When Cordelia said they would be going shopping Hermione had expected to arrive in Diagon Alley. Instead they were in a much more impressive setting. People in the most beautiful clothing flounced about babbling in what must have been french.

"Welcome to Ville D' Amant," Cordelia explained, "Diagon Alley's better in almost every respect." Hermione, of course, had already read about Ville D'Amant which just so happened to be the wizarding, shopping center of France. Top designers, publishers, potions companies, and many other impressive businesses were based in the historical village. The muggleborn stared around in wonder, as her grandmother towed her into a luxurious-looking clothing store. Inside french witches bustled around while opulent muggle and wizarding clothing danced behind them through the shop.

A pretty, older woman with silver hair and exquisite features stepped from behind the counter to pull Cordelia into an embrace. "Cor-de-lia, 'ow are you mon amie?" The woman, who was clearly the owner, asked in a truly delighted voice.

"I am perfectly well Etoile," Cordelia responded stiffly, composed as rigidly as ever, "My granddaughter is in desperate need of new clothes. Preferably of the highest quality, both muggle and wizarding, and nothing grey." The woman's nose crinkled disgustedly at the grey sweater Hermione had been wearing since yesterday. Etoile, as Cordelia had called her, smiled at Hermione with those bright, blue eyes of her's.

"Your granddaughter 'eez 'o beautiful Cordelia, you share zose gorgeous eyes," Etoile complimented them. Hermione decided that Etoile must have been one of the greatest liars on earth, for she was most certainly not beautiful. Nonetheless she thanked the woman for the compliment while Cordelia remained stoic. The girl wondered how the two women knew each other, but did not have time to think up an answer, for Etoile was sending her away with an unemotional, young sales woman.

Hermione was then forced to try on every, single, last piece of clothing available in the store. Muggle pants, shoes, shirts, dresses, undergarments, and even socks with designer labels danced in endless lines to the changing room at the snap of the sales woman's wand. The sales witch then began to produce wizarding clothes made of the oddest substances. Cloaks made from Augurey and Occamy feathers, robes woven from Banshee hair, and even dresses finely stitched from Unicorn tail hair. Dragon hide boots, and Acromantula silk gloves also became parts of the girl's wardrobe.

Several hours later Hermione finally stepped out of the changing room in a pair of periwinkle-blue robes which suited her brown eyes. Cordelia stood at the counter purchasing the pricey clothing. Upon her granddaughter's entrance she asked snarkily, "Can you add some Sleakeazy to our purchases?" Etoile was only too happy to teach Hermione how to apply the product while Cordelia forked over an unbelievable amount of money for the _many_ bags of clothing. Then with a farewell Etoile promised to have the clothing delivered to the Granger residence later that evening via floo.

Hermione was promptly tugged from the store by her grandmother, and the french sun shined down on them both brightly. Cordelia began to march down the road while the muggleborn struggled to follow. "Where are we going next?" She asked, feeling the ache in her still-bruised body. A wizard tried to force his wares upon her, but Hermione waved him off as though he were a pesky buzzard.

"To get you a proper wand," Cordelia finally answered when they had walked clear across Ville D'Amant. The pair came to an abrupt stop allowing Hermione to inspect their next destination. Painted in light pastels of blue, pink, red, and white stood a shop that was much prettier than Ollivander's, but which _felt_ much more ancient. Imprinted into the tinted windows were the words ' _Lefebvre's Ghaulish Wands_ '. The woman stepped inside first while the girl followed after a bit uneasily. The door shut noiselessly behind them, as they stepped into a very neat room.

Shelves of wand boxes reached well into the back of the store, but they actually appeared as though they were regularly dusted. A pretty, blonde witch with striking grey eyes stepped forth from the depths of the shelves. "My granddaughter is in dire need of a wand," Cordelia explained stiffly. While it was quite clear that Hermione needed a wand, for they were in a wand shop, she understood that Cordelia was trying to clarify that they were not french. Though the recognition which flashed in the wandmaker's eyes made it apparent that she was familiar with Hermione's now-famous face.

The woman smiled, "Of course Madame Granger." Her impeccable english was then directed towards Hermione. "I am certain you are familiar with the methods of the Ollivander family?" The intelligent muggleborn nodded mutely prompting the wandmaker to continue. "Us Lefebvres do not follow the same dogma of wand making," She explained, "Where the Ollivanders only sell wands with three 'supreme cores', we offer a wider range of options to suit every individual." Intrigued by this development Hermione stepped forwards to the counter when beckoned by the woman. "Which is your wand arm?" She asked, while a tape measurer took the girl's every measurement.

"Right," Hermione cringed nasally when the object began to wrap around her nose.

The thing fell to the counter with a flick from the woman's wand. Promptly after the process of selection began. "Ten and ¼ inches, mistletoe, Fairy wing core," She would explain before handing wands to an increasingly frustrated Hermione. Some of the bloody things shot from her hands, others caused the shop to shake, and other still triggered sporadic rainstorms outside. The cores grew more bizarre with each option, Griffin feather, Jobberknoll feather, Dittany stalk, Erumpent hide were a few of many oddities. Then finally Madame Lefebvre set the last wand back in its box with a heavy sigh. "Wait one moment, Miss Granger," She said before leaving the room.

Hermione sent a nervous glance towards her grandmother, but looked away swiftly. The woman had an odd, stiff expression upon her face which did not radiate comforting confidence. Shortly after her head turned forwards again a gentle _tap_ began to click on the wood floor from the shadowy shelves. Madame Lefebvre became visible first, leading a hunched figure. Then she came to a stop at the counter before stepping aside to reveal a woman who must have been older than Merlin. Glassy, blind eyes were set into a wrinkled face while gnarled locks of silver hair sat on the woman's neck.

The muggleborn did not have a chance to act before two, withering hands reached forwards to clamp upon her face. Hermione Granger, the girl who had faced down Lord Voldemort, wondered in that moment if she was going to die. Instead of crushing Hermione's skull, however, the woman's hands dropped to the counter as she barked something in french at Madame Lefebvre. The blonde wandmaker sashayed from the room while Cordelia looked at the old witch in something akin to shock. Much to Hermione's surprise her grandmother called out in french to the haggard woman while stepping closer to the counter.

The old woman responded in a gratingly croaky voice. Their conversation grew a crescendo in intensity until Madame Lefebvre returned carrying a very old wand box. She handed it to the visually impaired woman who promptly shoved it at Hermione. " _Open_ ," She hissed in english almost giving the twelve year old a heart attack. Glancing at Cordelia she tried to discern any clues as to what was going on, but found nothing. So quite resignedly she flipped the lid off of the box. Beneath mounds of wrapping paper sat a wand crafted from the silveriest wood that Hermione had ever seen. French wands, from what she had seen, were much prettier than english ones.

The stick sitting before her was a combination of both countries' styles. The color, texture, and design were battle worn, typically British, but the craftsmanship was undeniably french. Carved into the silver hilt was what appeared to be a dragon's head, its forked tongue twisting along the length to the wandpoint. Understanding the process at this point Hermione wrapped her fingers around the lion-like head. Her entire world changed. The shadows of a cloudy day outside turned to brilliant sunshine, the very air she breathed grew static with magical energy, and the stick promptly released a jettison of silver fireworks into the air.

Cordelia was the first to speak snapping something harsh at the old woman. The old woman in turn spat out an insult with a hissing tone to her voice. Madame Lefebvre proved herself a worthy mediator by cutting all tension from the room. "Madrona, thirteen inches precisely, Nundu whisker core," The woman explained to Hermione who wrinkled her nose in confusion. She had only been exposed to magic for a year, after all, and was hardly familiar with what a 'Nundu' was. Picking up on her lack of knowledge on the subject the blonde further elaborated.

"The Nundu is a powerful creature, a mammoth lion which rivals even Chimaeras," Her words caused Hermione's eyes to widen. "Their breath is deadly, and they have only been subdued by no less than one-hundred wizards working in tandem." Madame Lefebvre paused momentarily, "My great-grandfather collected the whiskers in this wand while travelling the world. I doubt there is anything quite like it."

"For good reason," Cordelia snapped, "She is a second year in Hogwarts! How can she be expected to control such power?"

Madame Lefebvre seemed to have lost her enduring patience, and her impeccable english. "Zis 'girl' managed to stop zee Dark Lord in 'er _first_ year at 'Ogwarts," She sneered, "Zee wand 'as chosen zee witch worthy of its power." Cordelia stared the woman down with deadly intensity. Madame Lefebvre stood straight next to the haggard crone once more, regaining her composure. "That will be thirty galleons, Madame Granger." Hermione watched as her grandmother tossed the golden coins onto the counter before marching from the store. The muggleborn moved to pick her new wand up from the counter before either of the women could try to bag it.

The old woman's talon-like fingernails wrapped around her wrist like a manacle.

Hermione glanced into the woman's face with what could only be called timidity. " _Watch zat one carefully_ ," She hissed in ramshackle english while jerking a head towards the door, " _Cordelia Granger eez not to be trusted_." The girl waited for her hand to be released before racing right out the door. She wondered in that moment just how many people France were acquainted with her grandmother.

OOOO

 ***This chapter has been revised.**

Well, this chapter took me way too long to rewrite. I have been super busy, and I think the revision process will only get worse from here….

Next Chapter: The Mudblood Apostle.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Appeals and Bones.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling or her publishing company.

OOOO

"Wake up," A familiar voice snapped in Hermione Granger's sleeping, "Get up beaver. You had better be running by the time I stand up straight…" The threat hung so heavily in the air that even the deepest of sleeps could have been crushed by its sheer enormity. Slowly the bushy-haired muggleborn sat up to stare at her unforgivingly cruel grandmother. Both of her brown eyes peered at the alarm clock to find that it was four-thirty in the morning. Cordelia simply sneered at her granddaughter's befuddlement, "I _told_ you that we would be changing your lifestyle, did I not? That includes a healthy, physical regimen."

With no signs of showing any mercy the woman then ushered Hermione from the house into the still, dark streets. Realizing that there was nothing to be done but give in the almost thirteen year old girl decided to do as she was bid. By the time it was over the muggleborn was hopelessly sore, and entirely embarrassed by her abysmal lack of talent at athleticism. Without wasting another moment in self pity she quickly showered, and changed into a pair of Gryffindor-crimson robes before applying the Sleakeazy to the atomic bomb she called a head of hair. Then with a leaden weight to her step she marched her way to the kitchen where Cordelia was waiting.

"Sit," The woman ordered from behind a copy of the Daily Prophet. Hermione sighed wearily while slipping into her normal spot at the kitchen table. It was then that she noticed the dishes and pots zooming through the air on the other side of the room. Kipper, Irish soda bread, eggs, bacon, sausage, crumpets, butter, and hash browns were all cooked before settling down in front of her. Realizing that her forced exercise that morning had left no appetite the girl simply sipped at a cup of tea. As the pair sat in silence her eyes began to scan across the front of Cordelia's copy of the Daily Prophet.

None other than Albus Dumbledore stared out at her with his twinkling, blue eyes. The Headmaster of Hogwarts stood in a very glitzy sort of atrium while photographers and reporters surrounded him on all sides. After her brown eyes had scanned the moving photograph several times over Cordelia spoke. "He is our enemy now, girl," The woman said somewhat omnisciently without lowering her magical newspaper, "Like so many others before us we must now face that atomic entity known as Albus Dumbledore." Finally those familiarly stringent eyes peered shrewdly at Hermione as though the girl were a piece of meat. Cordelia tossed the paper to the side before taking a sip of her steaming coffee.

" B-But he has been the greatest proponent of muggleborn rights since Merlin!" Hermione spluttered sharply, "How could you depict such a great man as a…. As nothing more than a conniving tactician?" Her throat was still dry from that bloody run, but still the girl protested for she was unable to allow Cordelia to drag her greatest idol through mud. Albus Dumbledore was the reason she had refused to allow the hat to put her in any house other than Gryffindor. Following in his footsteps was the ultimate path to brilliancy, success, and an archive of knowledge greater than any Ravenclaw could hope to discover.

"I can understand why you do not believe me, not after the Wizarding World has programmed you to idolize him as some deity," Cordelia acknowledged. "Though you are far too intelligent to have not noticed the tiniest of flaws in his deceptive, grandfatherly demeanor." In the quiet which followed Hermione tried to prevent her traitorous brain from searching for the very flaws Cordelia had mentioned. Though the temptation proved too great as she thought back on all of the abnormalities which had bothered her throughout her first year at Hogwarts.

One of the more prominent issues the muggleborn had with Dumbledore centered around the Sorcerer's Stone. What sort of fool allowed a six-hundred-something year old friend to hide a highly coveted object within Hogwarts? Utilizing such deadly defenses as a Cerberus, Devil's Snare, and poison with only a shoddy lock preventing unaware students from stumbling towards their deaths. Hermione recalled having been cornered in a restroom when the Troll escaped. Dumbledore had not sent the stone far away even after one of his students was nearly turned to muggleborn jam. That went well beyond foolish. Only an individual guided by wicked ambitions could so ruthlessly expose children to such an incredible amount of danger.

With the thought of children being exposed to dangerous situations she started to contemplate something even more sinister. Harry Potter was not a typical child. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, and Hermione found it very suspicious that _Ronald Weasley_ could deduce that their malnourished friend was abused, yet Albus Dumbledore somehow could not. "That slimy bastard," She hissed quietly, much to Cordelia's pleasure. Now that the girl had established that the headmaster of Hogwarts was indeed a conniving tactician her intelligent brain worked towards another revelation. What did Dumbledore have to gain from keeping Harry beaten down? A malleable, wizarding savior with a celebrity status that Hermione was only just starting to get a small taste of.

She realized something in that moment. Her decision to trade places with her friend had interfered with not only Voldemort's plans, but Dumbledore's as well. Thanks to Rita Skeeter's, embellished, stories Hermione was close to becoming a household name in wizarding Britain. Another savior who had somehow defeated the Dark Lord with _lots_ of mysterious luck. Unlike Harry, however, the girl had not been raised in an abusive environment. In fact, Hermione had been taught from day one to think with her head, and likewise, to never fall prey to manipulative attacks from cunning headmasters. The exact opposite of what was desired in political pawns. "What will it take?" She finally asked, no more hesitance tinging her tone, "How do we successfully fight him off?"

Her grandmother flicked her wand causing the newspaper to levitate into the air for their appraising eyes. "Albus Dumbledore has already begun to smear your name to the press," She remarked dryly. "You have been labelled a foolish girl who miraculously managed to survive a brutal routing by one Quirinius Quirrell," Cordelia sniffed indignantly. Much to Hermione's surprise the magical newspaper exploded spontaneously into ashes, sending her a foot in the air. "This means, my dear girl, that you must be _perfect_ from here-on-forth," Her brown eyes connected with Hermione's sternly, "To beat that plotting fart every order I give you must be followed."

Too put off after her disturbing series of revelations Hermione did not bother to respond to the woman's slew of insults. "In his one-hundred-nine years of life Albus Dumbledore has achieved an enviable quantity of wealth, fame, connections, and influence," Cordelia explained. "You must attain those four things to even contemplate striking back against him." With that the woman stood to her feet somehow prompting the dishes to begin cleaning themselves. Then per usual Cordelia reached across the table, grabbed Hermione in the most awkward way possible with a vice-like grip, before apparating away to an unknown destination.

OOOO

They appeared with an earsplitting crack inside of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Hermione observed the Goblins scratching away at their scrolls of parchment amidst stacks of galleons, sickles, and knuts. Hermione remembered having felt uncomfortable during her first visit to the bank only a year prior. Now, after having learned about the Goblin Rebellions in History of Magic she felt thoroughly unsettled. Wizards had admittedly spent little effort trying to improve their frosty relations with the Goblins, and she did not have any difficulty acknowledging such a fact. Yet the terrorist organization known as the 'Brotherhood of Goblins' had committed atrocities of such great scale that Hermione could not blame wizarding Britain for its savage responses.

She recalled how almost ninety years earlier a wizarding orphanage, the last and only one in Britain, had been attacked by Goblin mages. Every last child was slaughtered in the most torturous of ways prior to being hacked into tiny pieces. Black magic was then used to make every last bit of flesh, blood, and bone rain from the skies above wizarding London. Hermione glanced around, wondering if the Goblin mindset towards wizards had changed at all. Whether the cunning bank tellers would slaughter her where she stood simply for the thrill of it. The girl was, thankfully, tugged from such morbid thoughts only a split-second later. Cordelia had come to a halt, staring at the Head Clerk with both arms elegantly folded over each other.

The Goblin continued to scratch his quill across a roll of parchment, studiously ignoring their presence. "Excuse me," Cordelia snapped frostily, "I have an appointment with the Pyrite accountant."

"There is no such meeting on the record," Tsked the Head Clerk, still refusing to look up, "If you intend to see Accountant Ulnot I recommend following this bank's established protocol." Finally he glanced down at a visibly infuriated Cordelia Granger. "Now, would you like to clarify a time and date before leaving on your own, or shall I have our guards escort you out?" He tipped his balding head in the direction of two Goblin guards clad in crimson armor standing nearby.

Hermione watched her grandmother step closer to the desk. "I believe," The witch purred dangerously, "That you can pass on a message for me to Accountant Ulnot. Please let him know that we will be bypassing this bank's corrupted system in favor of a Wizengamot hearing." Her smile curved into a shape that could only have been described as wicked. "After my granddaughter is granted access to her vaults we will then proceed to transfer all of her assets to a more… Trustworthy location. One where I no longer have to deal with such dratted creatures as Goblins!" She spun around without another word, silently prompting Hermione stumble along behind her. Upon exiting the bank Hermione found herself being dragged by the arm straight out of Diagon Alley and into a small courtyard built off of Diagon Alley.

Her brown eyes skimmed across a sign posted on the corner which read Markitt Market. "What just happened," Hermione was sick of being told nothing, "Either give me some bloody answers or I will call mum and dad. I have had it up to here you old bat!" Perhaps the last bit was not well thought out, for Cordelia sent a bone chilling glare down at her granddaughter before looking away. Then her hand shot out to grab the girl's arm without warning for the thousandth time, yet Hermione skipped back defiantly. "We won't be going anywhere, Cordelia," She spat nastily, "I refuse to be dragged about like a puppet any longer!" The few passerby in the market stopped to observe the loud dispute seeming to have begun recognizing Hermione as that muggleborn from the newspapers.

The girl realized in that moment that her grandmother had anticipated such an outburst which was why they were not standing in the crowded Diagon Alley. Cordelia looked ready to hex Hermione within an inch of her life, but with each passing second some semblance of rationality returned to the woman's eyes. With a deep breath she opened her mouth, "I just initiated the most tedious legal process on the planet so _you_ could claim _your_ rightful inheritance." Before Hermione could ask in her baffled state of confusion what inheritance she could possibly have claim to Cordelia managed to grasp at her clothing tightly. They appeared in a flash of green light within a building that the girl did not recognize. The peacock blue walls were covered in swirling ruins while a dark, wooden flooring spread from the tunnel-like entry hall into a cavernous atrium.

Built into either side of the entry hall were gilded fireplaces that would every so often erupt with green flame as a new visitor arrived. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, beaver," Her grandmother sneered around at the governmental building as though repulsed, "This entire place is more corrupt than an Italian judge in a brothel." Without any further words the woman strode forwards with an enviable elegance. Her cloak dancing through the air with every sweeping step of her feet. Hermione simply focused on trying to keep up with the tall woman, and likewise did not look near as graceful. She tried her best to ignore the eyes that were already picking out her presence from the rest of the crowd.

'Hermione Granger,' They would whisper to each other, 'Killed a wizard twice her age,' They tittered, 'Some say He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was living inside of that Quirrell fellow!" She never felt more relieved to have stepped into a lift in her entire life. "Floor three," Cordelia barked at the attendant who instantly set the magical elevator flying upwards at a rocketing speed. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as all the gazes that had been boring into her disappeared. At least she _did_ , until the lift was brought to a jerking halt sending the unsuspecting girl flying back into the wall. "Get up," Her grandmother commanded unsympathetically, "And if I catch you slouching I might be tempted to hex your back straight!"

They glared at one another for a very long moment before Cordelia made her way out of the lift into a bustling office space. Thankful that the lift operator had had the common sense to avert his gaze she followed her grandmother once more. The woman stood in front of a secretary with crossed arms, "I have made an appointment to meet with Amelia Bones." At that Hermione's brown eyes widened significantly. She remembered reading about Amelia Bones at Hogwarts before all of that nasty business with the Sorcerer's Stone started. The woman's entire family had been slaughtered by Voldemort during what historians liked to call the 'Blood War'. A few short months later the woman graduated Hogwarts, and went on a rogue mission to hunt the Dark Lord down herself.

While she, thankfully, never managed to find Voldemort, or vice-versa, Amelia Bones made headlines for singlehandedly assassinating nearly thirteen fugitive Death Eaters. Now the powerful witch was the Head of the DMLE, or Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as well as a potential candidate for the next Minister of Magic. "Madame Granger was it?" The doe eyed secretary asked her grandmother as Hermione approached the desk. The girl noted with surprise that the Ministry employee did not seem to be as severely affected by Cordelia's glare as others usually were.

"My maiden name is Morrigan," Cordelia tipped her head up with a haughty pride, "I scheduled the appointment earlier this week."

"Do you happen to have the confirmatory letter that would have been sent in response?" The secretary asked in a tone that was firmer than a one-hundred year old oak.

"That will not be necessary, Hilda," A stern faced woman appeared from within the depths of the DMLE offices. "Please go assist Henry in the breakroom, someone spelled the toilet seats with another _Permanent Sticking Charm_." Hermione winced upon contemplating how painful and humiliating the removal of a toilet seat from one's rear end would be. Hilda did not seem to want to discover the answer to that question, yet she left the desk as bidden. When the secretary had disappeared from sight they were addressed by the imperious, new arrival. "Would you like to step into my office for this conversation, Madame Morrigan?"

"Of course Madame Bones," Her grandmother responded in an equally stringent sort of way. They both followed the woman towards a simple room built into the ancient, wooden walls. Gilded into a placard centered on the door was 'Departmental Head of Magical Law Enforcement'. Soon enough Hermione found herself sitting in a rather plain chair in the sparsely furnished, modestly sized. Amelia was engaged in polite small talk with Cordelia which in and of itself was shocking. Not once could the girl recall the old crone having treated another human being with half as much respect. Her grandmother enquired interestedly after news on the few Bones who were left which Amelia gave with pursed lips.

"-Susan informed me of your granddaughter," Amelia brought Hermione into the conversation rather abruptly. "She told me all about that Philosopher's Stone of course," The woman's sharp eyes practically drilled into the twelve year old's form, "And about Miss Granger's record breaking scores on the end of year examinations as well."

"Hermione is quite an intelligent child," Cordelia spoke before the young witch could respond. "I find myself thinking every night before I fall asleep that she deserves so much more. That I am an utter failure for failing to provide my own grandchild with what is her's by blood. " At that moment the muggleborn found herself realizing that the two seemed to be engaged in a conversation which happened to be less pleasant than it was political. Both parties seemed to be beating around an invisible bush towards the true topic of interest. Finally Cordelia voiced aloud the reason why they were sitting at Amelia Bones's desk. "My former husband destroyed any chances for an inheritance when he divorced me all of those years ago," Her voice was resolute. "Yet his other offspring are now in Azkaban where they belong, and Hermione has proven her worth to the entire, Wizarding World."

Amelia set down the pen she had been tapping against her square jaw only a moment prior. There was an intense look in her face that Hermione could not decipher for all the Galleons in the universe. Much of the context of this situation, in fact, was lost on her, but she somehow knew deep within her bones that something important would soon be revealed. "What are you doing here, then, Cordelia," Madam Bones responded curiously, "If your granddaughter has such a strong claim?"

Tossing some of the straight, blonde hair off of her shoulder, Cordelia Granger leaned forwards towards the Head of the DMLE. Hermione watched as the woman carefully retrieved a heavy pile of parchment paper from her purse only to toss it across the tabletop with a loud smack. Fully straightened once more she smiled at Amelia Bones cockily, "I am here to formally submit to the Wizengamot my appeal for Hermione Granger's _full_ inheritance. Since Gringotts refuses to allow us a blood test, the Ministry can officiate one just as well."

Madam Bones's professional composure was replaced with a gobsmacked expression.

OOOO

* **This chapter has been revised.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Vulnerable

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling, or her publishing company.

OOOO

Magnolia flowers symbolized purity and nobility. Each harsh, guttural breath which ripped through Hermione's windpipe left her feeling dizzier, but still she stared at those damned petals. Softer than silk, whiter than milk, and haughtily defiant against the summer breeze which pushed it back and forth. The girl knew that she probably looked insane, glaring at a flowerbed so intensely, but something about exercise left her feeling raw. In that moment every last feeling of inferiority and inadequacy was out in the open. Hermione was trapped in an impossible position where survival meant becoming something she most certainly was not. Tears began to prick at her brown eyes yet they were easily quelled with several, rapid blinks.

Regaining her breath the muggleborn witch finally limped towards home lest Cordelia look out the window and catch a glimpse of the bizarre trance. Pushing her back ramrod straight Hermione unlocked the door, and bypassed the kitchen entirely in favour of a shower. Running was proving to be a very difficult challenge with the accompanying abdominal cramps leaving her unable to contend with her grandmother. Besides, she knew better than to ever show up to breakfast with tears in her eyes. She could almost imagine Cordelia sneering, 'If pureblood tears are a weakness, then mudblood tears are a death sentence.' Warm water always did the trick though, and Hermione was sitting at the dining table in almost no time at all.

Hair sleekened by magical pommade, clad in an Oxford shirt and beige Louis Vuitton skirt. She might have been forced to change everything about her appearance, but there was one comfort Cordelia could not take away. Over the past five days they had fallen into a clumsy routine where Hermione would retreat into her books while her grandmother drank lots of black coffee and read the newspapers. That transition from wine to coffee was a development which greatly interested the twelve year old. It showed that Cordelia was working on something big, so important that all of her wits were required. Fortunately these plans were left undiscussed.

Until that morning of course. Hermione was quite engrossed in _Possession and Damnation_ , so much so that she failed to notice that Cordelia had folded her newspaper back into a neat, little rectangle. Eventually, however, she felt the mocking stare being sent in her direction. "You will be having an interview with Rita Skeeter this morning," The woman stated firmly, "During which you will be charming, engaging, and _likeable_." She shivered, not only at the idea of an interview with Rita Skeeter, but at the idea of having to be those three, heavily-emphasized adjectives. "Now, if I were to ask you," Her grandmother paused thoughtfully, "Why do you deserve to inherit the entire Pyrite estate, you would respond with?"

Breathing deeply, for this aforementioned estate was the crux of her grandmother's plans, Hermione contemplated various approaches. She could be defiant, humble, or even cunning, yet there was an obvious option lying just within her grasp. "Pyrite blood runs through my veins," She answered determinedly, "And I will do more for the House than those Death Eaters who are rotting away in Azkaban." The muggleborn was a know-it-all, something that would never completely change, and Rita Skeeter would get answers to all of her questions. Cordelia gave a grudging nod at the response given. Feeling somewhat annoyed at being forced into another situation without warning, or permission, Hermione asked coolly, "Where will you be during my interview?"

"While you are at the Daily Prophet, complying with everything they ask of you," Snapped the witch, "I shall be meeting with an old... Friend." A hand swept across the desk to grab tightly onto Hermione's own. "We both have jobs to do today, sway the public to your side, and I will do the rest." Nodding reluctantly, while wishing that Dumbledore and Voldemort would just leave her the hell alone, the girl steeled herself for what would be quite the political endeavor. She was a mudblood after all, and a lack of confidence would only make half the wizarding population hate her more. Unable to start reading her book again Hermione patiently waited until Cordelia finished drinking the revolting cup of something. She wondered if the old woman had finally upgraded from black coffee to slurping liquid heroin.

They then locked hands tightly with little communication, or warning, and apparated away from the Granger residence with a small pop.

OOOO

Barnabus Cuffe stood with tightly-clasped arms, left leather shoe tapping sharply against the marble floor. Soft clicks pierced his eardrums feeding further into an anxiety which he had thought was long gone. Confidence came with being editor of the Daily Prophet, and the sixty year old man felt himself feeling like a fledgling reporter again. Sinking his teeth tightly into a juicy story so that no one else could steal it from him. "Where are they?" He snapped viciously at his personal assistant who stood next to him, quavering in her strappy heels. The young woman probably realized that should the Grangers fail to arrive it would somehow be blamed on her. Pity, the editor decided, for she had a rather nice rump he enjoyed looking at.

Not much longer, however, a young witch with a very recognizable face strode determinedly through the front doors. She was dressed well in fashionable muggle attire, Barnabus supposed, yet good enough was far from extraordinary. His assistant slumped in relief only to remember that her employer did not like to see his workers so uncomposed. "Miss Granger," He smiled politely down at the Wizarding World's newest hero, wondering silently how many copies would sell the next evening. "I was under the impression that your grandmother would be joining us today as well."

"She had another engagement which needed seeing to," The muggleborn clasped both hands together forcing her back to go even straighter. "I am more than capable of watching after myself." The older man sized up the celebrity. He found himself unnerved by the intelligence in those brown eyes, yet he supposed it was nice that Cordelia Morrigan would not be present. That old bat had been a force to be reckoned with back in Hogwarts, now would certainly be no different. Hopefully her granddaughter would prove a little more…malleable. "Thank you for helping to arrange my interview with Miss Skeeter today," Smiled the girl somewhat forcedly, "I am eager to get started."

"This is Priscilla Fawley," Barnabas gestured towards the secretary in response, not bothering to return any false pleasantries. "She will be helping you to Miss Skeeter's office, and then will assist with your photoshoot. I will be meeting momentarily with Miss Skeeter to ensure that her questions take your grandmother's…Considerations into account." By considerations he meant the long list of demands which the old hag sent to him during their earliest phase of correspondences. This was clearly part of an ambitious plot which Cordelia was pushing to fruition, and he would keep his nose clean of it so long as the muggleborn before him answered the questions.

She simply nodded at him with a flawless mask of indifference. Barnabas found himself unsurprised by how different Hermione Granger looked from that first picture he had published in the Prophet two weeks prior. Her light-brown hair was no longer a hedge of bushy frizz having been sleekened with Sleakeazy. Those buck teeth, which were truly an eyesore, had been shrunken down to a much more flattering size. Cordelia never would have tolerated her progeny to have such an unacceptable appearance, especially with how fixated the public eye was on her granddaughter. Pretty faces were more likeable faces.

He watched them step into one of the elevator lifts then waited until they were hefted out of sight. With a pleasant smile spread across his no longer anxious face Barnabus made his way through the Prophet headquarters at a brisk pace. The brown nosers complimented his snappy suit as he passed them by while those who still maintained a shred of dignity simply nodded. Eventually the editor came to a stop at his top reporter's office door, desperately trying to steel himself for what was about to come. Everyone knew that Rita Skeeter wanted the position of editor very badly. So badly that she would stop at nothing short of, perhaps, murder. Cuffe knocked firmly against the wood causing a voice from within to snap, "Enter."

Rolling both eyes he watched as the the door swung inwards of it its own volition. Rita Skeeter stood with both arms raised high above her head of curled platinum hair. She was gazing out of the open window at the second best view the Daily Prophet offices could offer. "Hermione Granger has arrived for your interview," He announced, "I will be taking a look at the questions while she is being prepared."

"They are on the desk, Cuffe," Rita snarled with what most of her coworkers referred to as the 'private voice'. Barnabus reached over to snatch up the packet of papers into his hand. Several loud, obnoxious page turns later he slapped it back down on the firm surface. "I plan to eviscerate that girl," She cackled, dropping both arms so that her immodest dress fell back to where it belonged, "By the time I am through with 'the-muggleborn-who-survived' Cordelia Granger will regret having placed limitations on _my_ interview." The reporter turned to sneer up at him, "Besides. Why would I dare choose to drag _Albus Dumbledore_ through the coals when Hermione Granger would do just as well? Not only would his coalition be pleased, but so would the blood purists as well."

"Half of Wizarding Britain already hates you," Cuffe bit back easily, "What difference would it make if you added a few more names to that list?" She slipped closer to him in response. Reaching a taloned hand up to grasp at the silver clasp of his summer cloak. He held his breakfast in despite the immense repulsion that went with standing so close to the detestable hack.

"Why would I help admirable heroines, such as Hermione Granger, vanquish political foes like Albus Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy?" She wondered aloud in mockingly dumbfounded amazement. "If I used my influence to get rid of all the nasties of our world, Cuffe," Rita smiled wickedly, "Then there wouldn't be anything left to write about." Carefully the short woman stepped back to rearrange her audacious outfit. "Now, I have a juicy interview waiting," She announced tauntingly, stepping out of the office with the usual amount of swagger. Barnabus shook his head at the realization that he would one day be dead, and Rita Skeeter was the most likely candidate for editor.

"I wish you luck dealing with that bitch," He whispered to himself, "You are going to need it, Hermione Granger."

OOOO

Hermione found herself sitting in a metal chair outside of Rosa Lee Teabag. Sitting on the table before her was a cup of Moly tea. A photographer stood nearby waiting patiently for the moment when his own role in the process came to fulfillment. Passerby recognized who she was, and to a lesser extent who her interviewer was. Any attempts to get autographs were halted by the three attendants who stood posted nearby to ensure the meeting ran uninterrupted. "Hermione Granger," Rita Skeeter smiled wolfishly, "I have been corresponding with many people who know you? What can you tell me that they cannot?"

Smiling with slight timidity Hermione replied, "I love to read and study. My parents worked very hard to gain success in the muggle world. They have instilled in me what it takes to achieve great things, and I want nothing more than to prove myself to them."

"There is no need to be so humble, Miss. Granger," The reporter sounded slightly sardonic, "Your Charms professor, Filius Flitwick, told me you are one of the brightest students he has ever encountered. Likewise, Professor Minerva McGonagall boasted that you had the highest scores on the first year examinations out of the whole school."

"I was not being humble," Hermione corrected Skeeter firmly, noting that the woman looked shocked as a result. Sticking firmly to her know-it-all personality she continued, "I told you that I work hard and love to study. All of those academic achievements are a result of the effort that I displayed at Hogwarts this past year." Pausing for a calming sip of her iced tea Hermione waited calmly for the next question. Hopefully there would be no retribution for her decidedly sharp correction.

"Much of that talent must be innate, however," The woman prodded with surprising gentleness. Peering down her spectacles at Hermione expectantly. "So many great witches and wizards have been murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named after all. The majority of whom were much more skilled, and hardworking than yourself. Yet somehow you, a twelve year old, managed to destroy what many allege was the Dark Lord's bodily vessel, Quirinius Quirrell." The woman leaned in as though about to share some sort of secret, "What makes you so different. How are you sitting here, alive, while other targets of You-Know-Who are not?"

The muggleborn was intelligent enough to pick apart each of Skeeter's words for careful analysis. She understood that the notorious reporter wanted to make her into some sort of clueless muggleborn. A girl that only managed to stop a wizard twice her age from stealing the Sorcerer's Stone thanks to sheer, dumb luck. Such a thing would diminish what she had accomplished back in June, and transform her from a cardholder into a bumbling pawn of fate. "Quirrel and Voldemort both underestimated me greatly," Hermione spoke with artful precision, "They did not consider me important enough to warrant consideration until I stepped into that dungeon to face them. Even then they both assumed that I was a useless muggleborn."

Rita's rimmed glasses could have melted with intensity of her glare. "What _did_ happen in that dungeon, if I might ask? We have heard so much speculation, yet very little in the way of concrete facts." Hermione shivered slightly at the idea of having to relive what happened, yet remembered Cordelia warning her to comply with every question. With trembling hands she verbalized everything regarding the Sorcerer's Stone from how she, Ron, and Harry discovered that it was hidden in the school to the moment of reckoning. There was one detail which she did not include, as the Wizarding World would not take kindly to hearing of Voldemort's failed attempt at possession.

"Albus Dumbledore claims that you have not earned the privilege of being awarded an Honor of Merlin, First Class, as proposed by Minister Fudge," Skeeter continued, "What is your response?"

"That he allowed an old friend to hide a coveted, magical artifact in the middle of Hogwarts. With such rudimentary defenses that three first years could stumble upon not only this object, but Lord Voldemort as well." The snappy reply came easily off of Hermione's lips. "It is entirely Dumbledore's own doing that I am being nominated to receive such an award." She brushed the sleek curtain of hair off of her shoulder before making a final point on the subject. "I feel that Albus Dumbledore should be put under investigation by Hogwarts' Board of Governors for exposing the students to such dangers." Her cup of tea was no longer full signalling that the back-and-forth interview had been going for some time.

"Tell me more about your upcoming appeal to the Wizengamot," The blonde changed subjects rapidly. "Why are you laying claim to the inheritance of House Pyrite?" Her eyes glimmered cruelly, "Many, including Albus Dumbledore, have claimed that your grandmother is using your newfound fame to gain political power. Do you understand what it means to be lawfully determined the heiress of House Pyrite?" Hermione's teeth gnashed violently at how Skeeter was ceaselessly attempting to question her understanding of the Wizarding World.

"I am laying claim to the estate of House Pyrite because it is _my_ birthright," She spoke with confidence, "That extends to all of the assets, properties, and the obsolete, Pyrite ancestral seat on the Wizengamot as well. Mostly Headmaster Dumbledore is fearful that I will use that political influence to call him out for his unforgivable ineptitude. He should instead try to focus more attention on keeping Hogwarts a competitive academic institution."

"Many will argue at the appeal that you do not meet the...Qualifications of House Pyrite," Skeeter pressed.

"You mean by the fact that I am a mudblood?" Hermione clarified point-blank to the woman's horrified surprise. "Don't worry," She hissed aggressively, "Plenty of my bigoted classmates have whispered that whenever I had the answer to a question. Voldemort himself called me that filthy word multiple times as he tried his best to end my life." The girl sat back with the same, haughty composure that Cordelia practically wore like a shaw. "Cornelius Fudge constantly rants about how society is changing, but I cannot see it. Muggleborns are still begrudged their birthrights, and my Pyrite cousins in Azkaban have more claim to the inheritance than I do." She winced at having let her emotions get the best of her like that. Attacking Fudge was a bad idea as Dumbledore was already enough to deal with.

"You disagree with Minister Fudge's stance on muggleborn equality?" Rita's quill began scribbling with much more fervor. Blood pounded in Hermione's ears as she tried to find a way to remediate her previous answer. No matter how much she believed it to be true the girl could not go picking random fights when the hounds were already at the door. As the panic increased familiar voices started to whisper in the back of her head. 'Do not apologize. People admire those who hold to their opinions,' The silky voice, and bane of her existence, advised sternly. "Miss. Granger," Rita snapped in a bloodthirsty tone, "Do you have an answer or not?" Deciding that things could not get much worse she looked up to meet her interviewer's expectant gaze full on.

"Our elected officials act as though all of the problems went away when Harry Potter stopped Voldemort," Skeeter flinched at Hermione's fifth or sixth use of that forbidden moniker. "They are absolutely wrong. He is still out there. Plotting his return to power, and still fueled by an undercurrent of blood purism which was never _truly_ dealt with." She stared with a determined gaze at the reporter, "I didn't go into that dungeon for fame, or a prestigious award, or to pursue a controversial blood claim. I faced Voldemort and Quirrel because it was the right thing to do. Because I refuse to live in a world where muggleborns are treated like scum. Now Minister Fudge needs to prove to us all that he feels the same way." Hermione felt her adrenaline pumping at the end of what had been a fortunate follow-up. Cornelius Fudge could never lash out at her, or he would be revealed as not truly caring for muggleborns.

They went through several more questions, each one more confrontational than the last. Skeeter finally finished after realizing that the, often-times rude, questions were not capable of dragging Hermione into the mud. She stood as gracefully as possible before being escorted by the insufferable blonde to stand in the middle of the alley with Gringotts towering above their heads. Hermione was soon forced to preen and pose for the photographer as though nothing were wrong. As though there were not silky voices whispering bits of advice in her head.

OOOO

Cordelia Granger stood hidden in the deepest bowels of Knockturn Alley. She wanted nothing more than to brandish her wand for at least a sense of security, but refrained from doing so. The woman was a Morrigan, and despite having been absent from the wizarding political scene for so long she would continue to maintain the dignity of her House. 'Morrigans do not show fear,' Her father's thick, Irish accent lectured in a distant memory, 'They cause others to fear. The blood of the Crow runs thick through yours and mine veins.' Her feet clicked across the spiderwebbed, stone ground which had probably been lain down two centuries earlier. Despite the encouraging thoughts she directed at her _very_ nervous body Cordelia was growing more uncertain by the moment.

This was a very deadly game to have reinitiated, yet her hunger was far greater than any rationality. Her granddaughter being born a witch was truly where it all began. Cordelia should have taken a deeper interest in the girl's childhood. Now they did not trust one another as relatives should, and enemies were far too close for comfort. She was willing to take responsibility for having alienated herself from the intelligent child. There had been no small amount of resentment in Cordelia's heart that Hermione got to enter the Wizarding World without an army of wands patiently waiting. Now they were both trapped in a horrifically similar situation. Hunted like prey by powerful, ruthless wizards.

Though that girl was much smarter than Cordelia ever had been. If the Crow's blood ran thick in Cordelia's blood then it most certainly ran even thicker in Hermione's. She would give her grandchild every single tool necessary to bring their bloodline back into a prominent position. Even if it could potentially result in her own death. A figure stepped into the shadows, their cane tapping out an intimidating pattern with each smack across the stone ground. Standing firm in the face of a monster Cordelia hid all those whirling uncertainties behind a condescending sneer. This was not only for herself, but Hermione as well.

"You have gotten old," She taunted before stepping forth to begin the deadliest of dances.

OOOO

Thank you for reading and leaving such stellar reviews! I hope that this chapter was not too short. It just felt right to end where I did. Hopefully I captured Rita Skeeter well enough for you all. I really enjoyed the idea of her trying to pick apart Hermione who is becoming much more shrewd under Cordelia's influence.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: Intriguing Opportunities.

Disclaimer: I own none of the material written by J. K. Rowling, or her publishing company.

OOOO

Cordelia was nothing short of pleased by the glowing article which ran in the Daily Prophet only a day later. Barnabus Cuffe, Hermione supposed, must have stood over Skeeter's shoulder while she clacked at a typewriter. The image of those garishly painted talons operating such ancient machinery caused a nightmarish shiver to roll over the girl's spine. Nothing proved more unsettling than the public support which came hand-in-hand with that article. Hundreds of owls bearing supportive letters arrived at the Granger Residence surprising many muggle neighbors. Not only did this remind Cordelia that they were now far too famous to live without wards, but it also reminded Hermione that anonymity was completely finished.

Her grandmother left soon after this postal barrage started to seek out the assistance of wizarding contractors who specialized in defensive magic. Leaving the muggleborn completely alone with tons of owls and mounds of parchment. That was when what seemed like the thousandth tap to strike against her parent's windows echoed from a room over. Standing swiftly Hermione marched into the living room towards what was, probably not, the last owl that would visit. What greeted her was a very strange bird indeed. A black-green Augurey stared forlornly into her brown eyes. Wondering what sort of wizard would employ such a notoriously bad omen as their familiar she ushered the peculiar avifauna inside. Hardly able to contain her interest Hermione practically ripped the newest scroll of parchment open in haste.

' _Miss Hermione Granger-_

 _I have met many celebrities, academics, politicians, and athletes over the course of my very long life. Read hundreds, of thousands of articles. For a very long time it seemed that I would never again experience that pleasant surprise which is most often wrought by intriguing interviews. This very morning, however, upon waking up to read what is, undoubtedly Rita Skeeter's only tolerable piece, that wondrous sensation returned to my heart. You have captured the hearts of many in only a year spent amongst wizarding kind, but not without merit. They are intrigued, quite like myself, by this muggleborn who demonstrated nothing short of extraordinary bravery, intelligence, and pure talent in protecting Hogwarts._

 _Each of your professors were quite eager to heap piles of praise upon my doorstep mere hours after receiving owls full of questions. Dedicated in the pursuit of knowledge almost all of them agreed. An attribute which I greatly admire. A tool which, when paired with hope, allows humanity to crawl from darkness towards prosperous enlightenment. Many other individuals of reputations both lesser and greater than mine own have come to the same conclusion. Accordingly, all of them will have taken notice of your prodigious potential now that this interview is spreading like a wildfire throughout Britain. Most will hope to curry favour with the youngest witch ever to be given an Honor of Merlin, First Class. Others shall hope to gain prestige by latching themselves onto you like parasites. No matter the intentions all of these parties shall use similar tools. Advantageous internships are generally only granted to children reared in absolute opulence. Glorious apprenticeships long barred to those with a single drop of muggle blood._

 _For the sake of honesty my intentions while writing this letter were not entirely birthed of generosity. No, I hoped to snatch you into my greedy beak before any of those charlatans could do the same. Many great wizards have learned many great things from beneath my tutelage. Spend this upcoming year at Hogwarts by proving why you are more than a political figurehead to be toted around. Continue to intrigue me, Hermione Granger, and I will gift you with more knowledge than any professor ever could._

 _Nicolas Flamel_

For a long time she stood there with the paper rattling about in her very white fist. After several minutes had passed there was a familiar swoosh from the fireplace marking Cordelia's return. This was a personal matter indeed, one which Hermione held no intentions whatsoever of sharing with her grandmother. The woman would no doubt be overjoyed by the idea of her descendant accepting a summer apprenticeship with Nicolas Flamel. She, however, intended to make such an important decision without any interference. Tucking the letter into a pocket of her silvery skirt Hermione was quick to cuckold the Augurey back outside. Rushing back to the kitchen she greeted Cordelia's standard, unemotional gaze. "You have been working on your acceptance speech for tomorrow, yes?" That sharp tone grated on the muggleborn's nerves.

"Of cour-," Her voice attempted to respond until being soundly cut off.

"I trust that you are capable of stringing something sufficient together," Cordelia continued mercilessly. "Of course, sufficiency is hardly the sort of bar that we are trying to set. The things that we must accomplish require exemplary speeches. Something that can make even Albus Dumbledore go weak in the knees as he is violently slandered before the public." Whenever her grandmother flew into a rant Hermione always found herself, strangely, enraptured. "Reaffirm to the public that you are in fact the same person Rita Skeeter wrote about. Unforgivingly audacious, unafraid of angering the wrong people, charmingly intelligent."

"I don't feel like I am any of those things at all," Hermione admitted, thinking of how the voice was the only reason that interview did not result in absolute disaster. Honestly the girl did not know why she was confiding her deepest fear to Cordelia of all people. No sympathy would ever come from that corner.

A designer handbag was tossed angrily down onto the tabletop in response. "Shut this moronic, self-degradation down," The older woman snapped, "Your professors call you the brightest student of your year. You destroyed Lord Voldemort's very talented, much older vessel. If you are incapable of demonstrating your worthiness to the wizarding world in a simple speech then perhaps I misplaced my trust." Her grandmother pulled out the chair prior to flipping a dismissive wrist in her direction. "Write that blasted speech already, and stay out of my sight."

Hermione was only too happy to do as she was bidden. Stepping shakily from the kitchen while a pair of brown eyes followed her back the whole way out.

OOOO

She found herself staring into the mirror the next morning with a feeling of immense dread. Ink-stained fingertips skillfully wove globules of sleakeazy into bushy curtains of hair while brown eyes flicked backwards towards a tornado of crumpled papers. It was one thing to have imagined going to receive an Honor of Merlin, First Class, a matter of days ago. Back when such a prospect seemed so unattainable, so very far away from actually happening. Now Hermione Granger was suddenly faced with a debilitating realization that she would be meeting Dumbledore, Fudge, the entire Wizarding World, and the press in a single day. Wanting nothing more than to whimper beneath her bed the almost-thirteen year old instead stood straight as a reed. Pulling her loose waves of now-silky hair into an elaborate braid she turned to face the messy bedroom.

The muggleborn was well aware that she could use magic to set the clutter straight, so long as Cordelia was close enough nearby. Though it grated horribly on her nerves that children from magical families were given such a massive bending of the rules. Accordingly Hermione moved to pick up all of the debris like a muggle would, by hand. She was just done with this task when Cordelia entered into the room without so much as a knock. Wordlessly the woman set a bag on recently-made bed with the greatest care. "I collected these heirlooms from the Morrigan vaults," Her crisp voice articulated emotionlessly, "Only wear them if you intend on doing our bloodline proud today." Then she marched back out of the bedroom with her heels clicking loudly across the hardwood floor.

Suddenly alone again Hermione creeped ever closer to the massive, medicine bag until it was just within reach. Pulling at the latch her uncertain fingers reached within only to pull out a very strange gown. Part Goblin-forged metal, part silk with what looked like thousands of jewels glittering across its surface. The girl looked between her, now, seemingly unextraordinary set of robes and the undeniably magical piece of clothing sitting on the bed. Her choice was a hardly a difficult one. When the strange costume was finally clasped in place Hermione felt it begin to shift. Reshaping and resizing so it could become the perfect size for her small frame.

When this process finally finished there was a loud snap as two, strange-looking clasps snapped into place on her wrists of their own volition. Both shoulders were revealed by what was the most striking piece of fashion she could ever recall having seen. The skirt was a heavily jewel-encrusted swathe of Flobberworm silk that flowed down to both ankles. Entire strips of metal then combined with the silk portion from her hips upward. Then two bands of silver circled off tightly into thickly wound strings of chiming ornaments which were a disconnected jumble down to both wrists. Looking inside the mirror Hermione felt like a grownup. She felt like a force to be reckoned with. Gaze flitting to where Nicholas Flamel's letter lay on her nightstand.

A swift series of movements later the piece of paper was tucked neatly inside of her right shoe. The perfect reminder that she was special, and more than deserving of a prestigious award. Twisting back towards the bag the witch pulled one, final object out for inspection. Without pause Hermione fastened the wand holster tight across her left shin. Making sure to stand as tall as possible she marched determinedly from the bedroom, trying to leave all of the uncertainties beneath the bed. Still partly unable to deduce how House Morrigan could have ever afforded something as priceless as the odd outfit she now wore her feet came to a stop in the kitchen. Cordelia was now clad into a gorgeous evening gown. Light-black, vintage, backless, revealing a shockingly curvaceous figure. Hermione felt like she would die from the mere mortification of seeing her, surprisingly youthful, grandmother dressed in such a manner.

"I wore that to my coming of age ball," The grey-blonde witch stepped forwards hesitantly, "And so did every Morrigan woman of our bloodline before us. To this day I can remember your great-grandfather handing that bundle to me. He claimed it was the armor left behind by the Crow goddess after she began our line." A steady hand reached upwards to curl gently around Hermione's cheek. "It was a burden to have the blood of the Crow running through our veins, he told me. I was fifteen when he told me this, and it was as great a responsibility then as it is now." That hand fell away as a steely look entered Cordelia Granger's eyes, "But we are the last witches of our bloodline. Today both of us have destinies we must face, and I have faith that you will hold up your end."

A firm nod jerked Hermione out of her stunned disbelief. Perhaps Cordelia was manipulating her with that little tale, or maybe she meant every word. The simple reminder that this was a game for survival, however, reaffirmed that there was no room for any mistakes. "Let's go to the Ministry then," The girl affirmed, "To claim our destinies, grandmother." A grim sort of smile twisted across the older woman's features as she grabbed at Hermione's hand. They twisted away into nothingness only a short moment later.

OOOO

"Wands please," Came the monotonous voice of a bored security wizard. He seemed incapable of looking up. Cordelia went first, allowing her wand to be evaluated. "Dragon heartstring, 11 ½ inches. Sycamore. Registered to a Cordelia Granger." At that last name he looked up to gaze with a gaping mouth at them both. "Oh! I was given specific instructions for the two of you!"

"I am well aware. Why are we being left so rudely unaccommodated while you sit on your indolent behind then?" Hermione wondered how her father ever managed to stomach such sharp reprimands as a child. They were brutal. No response came from the security wizard's bitter face as he scrambled to both feet. The massive, warded gate leading into the Ministry was locked behind them causing an increasingly large line to groan in frustration. Both of the witches followed him towards what appeared to be a blocked off section reserved for the ceremony. "There are last minute decorations which need to be overseen," Cordelia informed her granddaughter with a whisper, "Then we will begin greeting guests until late this afternoon."

Hermione found herself given explicit instructions to become acquainted with the stage before people began to arrive. So she marched along the empty reception hall while occasionally pausing to spin beneath the enchanted chandeliers dangling overhead. Every step caused the girl's gown to release an almost ludicrous amount of glimmering light. Instead of stewing in self-degradation over the fact Hermione decided to embrace it all. The muggleborn planted both feet firmly on the stage with her shoulders pulled back in a prideful manner. Haughty relish flowed throughout her very muddy blood while she allowed the words of her speech to pool across a suddenly confident throat.

She never managed to recite a word though, for Cordelia suddenly interrupted by entering the massive chamber. What followed was a dizzying process of greeting the well-to-do guest list. Punctual purebloods sniffed down at her, only to happy to voice their surprise at a muggleborn managing to accomplish something so great. Weak politicians hoping for a chance at even the slightest sliver of influence arrived extra early to catch the cameras. Hermione was forced to greet them all at the doors to the reception hall with a gracious smile plastered across her increasingly-sore face. With every passing second she found herself growing more appreciative of Cordelia's hard-learned lessons of etiquette and wizarding decorum. These snooty aristocrats would never have respected an 'undignified little mudblood', but they at least couldn't deny that she could hardly be considered classless.

An obscure member of the Wizengamot was in the process of shaking her hand for what seemed the fifth time when he arrived. The boy from the train who had prevented his large group of friends from pestering her for an autograph. Standing next to an old crone who could pass for his grandmother he looked rather dashing in an expensive pair of robes. Of course Cordelia chose to stop in right as Hermione found herself with a particularly bad case of flushed skin. "I applaud your taste in suitors," She hissed pointedly after politely directing the Wizengamot member elsewhere, "But hide this loopy expression. No Diggory will ever be hooked by an insipid fangirl!" Immediately after that bit of advice was spewed Hermione watched this Diggory approach with a sinking stomach.

The girl could hardly help who she developed romantic infatuations with, and Cordelia's sudden interest in the matter was horrifying. "Vulpina Diggory," She greeted the woman as though they were old friends, yet Hermione could sense a wary undertone. "I haven't seen you for ages." They embraced stiffly prior to stepping back into their respective positions.

"Likewise," This Diggory crone simpered saccharinely, although there was nothing remotely sweet about the affirmation. "You had me worried for a spell, Cordelia," She smiled tightly, as though that were far from the truth, "Everyone thought that you would never be seen in society again after...The scandal. Though here we stand, prepared to watch your granddaughter receive an Honor of Merlin."

"Yes, sometimes our past decisions prove not to have quite so powerful a hold as we would like to imagine," Hermione's grandmother did not reveal any venom through her even tone. Though that pointed comment seemed to bespeak of something nasty barreling towards this contemptuous conversation. "For instance, I remember reading the social section of the Daily Prophet so many years ago. Learning that you managed to nab a Diggory despite all of that time you spent with Abraxas Malfoy. Back in the Slytherin common room, remember those days, Vulpina?" Hermione felt her mouth drop at what was insinuated, noticing how the boy standing next to Vulpina Diggory seemed to suffer a similar reaction.

Swelling upwards with what little of her dignity remained the Diggory witch smiled frostily at Cordelia. "It would be my greatest pleasure to invite you both to our annual, summer gala." Turning to Hermione she sniffed, "Feel free to bring your father. The squib." Without another word she spun to socialize with the other guests.

"My name is Cedric," The boy announced capturing both of their gazes. He was visibly more than a little sheepish at having to clean up the mess left behind by his grandmother, "I apologize. She can be a little bit… Much sometimes." With a reassuring smile he fled to no doubt perform damage control in the wake of Vulpina Diggory's destructive path.

"What just happened?" Hermione asked her grandmother while trying to get over disastrous first meeting with Cedric Diggory.

"No doubt Vulpina noticed a muggleborn with bushy hair staring at her grandson at King's Cross this summer," Cordelia held tightly onto her hand. "Then the old Hag probably realized that that very same muggleborn was the famous Hermione Granger. Claimant to the vast fortunes of House Pyrites, House Morrigan, a dental practice, and whatever else I have managed to keep hidden in Gringotts." Grip tightening, "The dots clicked together easily. A wealthy muggleborn who is besotted by young Mr. Diggory's dashing looks. More than capable of lifting House Diggory from their recent spot of financial trouble for an opportunity to rise in status."

"What is this?" Hermione snapped, losing composure momentarily, "The eighteenth century? Do I look like some sort of American Dollar Princess? I am only thirteen years old."

"This is the destiny that you must come to terms with," Cordelia ground out, "There is no choice under these circumstances. We will go to that gala, and you will begin the game of ensnaring Cedric Diggory within your web. Pureblood society is a ladder and any opportunity must be snatched up without reservation. Now go wait by the stage for the ceremony to begin. I can greet these buffoons." The muggleborn allowed herself to slip into the bursting crowd of scholars, politicians, athletes, models, and Ministry employees. Was this the consequence of having finally embraced life as a wizarding heiress?

' _Your grandmother is hiding something_ ,' The silky voice suddenly erupted into existence causing her to stumble into a walrus-like man. Never had the voice ever sounded quite so powerful or commanding as it did now. Plenty of time must have passed with her simply trying to remember how one went about breathing. Contemplating whether the entity was trying to tell her the truth or instill a sense of paranoia. "Looking a bit flustered, Granger," A refined voice remarked from behind her. Spinning around Hermione found herself staring at Daphne Greengrass. If Pansy Parkinson thought herself the princess of Slytherin, then the Greengrass girl was most certainly the queen. Hermione could remember occasions during the previous year when the other girl managed to create massive conflicts with a few well-placed words.

Drawing to full height Hermione Granger steeled her spirit for an encounter she was nowhere near prepared to handle. Cordelia always claimed that purebloods were practically born for political positions. Greengrasses especially, from what Hermione had read that summer, proved powerful adversaries when ruffled the wrong way. "This crowd is just so large," She countered blithely, "I found myself getting a tad warm. All of these amazing wizards and witches here to celebrate my accomplishments." The comment was pointed like a knife. What had Daphne Greengrass managed to achieve that she was any position to critique the youngest recipient for an Honor of Merlin?

"I have always thought of them as vultures," Daphne stepped closer, her gown was nowhere near as impressive as Hermione's, but they were luxurious all the same. "Waiting for people to go on that stage. Hoping that they fall apart so whatever is left intact can be gobbled up." At this point the girl noticed that Daphne was sipping out of a champagne flute which seemed strange given that she was only twelve. "We both know that none of them are here to celebrate your accomplishments, however. All of these hacks are here to chortle amazedly at how far the bushy-haired muggleborn has come. To sneer at the sheer gall she has displayed in claiming House Pyrite's fortunes."

"I will venture a guess that you grew tired of sneering alongside those hacks. Couldn't deny yourself the chance to put me back in my rightful place." Hermione spoke in her matter-of-fact tone. She wanted Daphne Greengrass to make her point known, then scramble back to mummy and daddy's proud embraces.

"No, you silly girl," Daphne finished her alcoholic beverage in one last go. The muggleborn noticed that her classmate was elegant beyond their age. A pureblood aristocrat through and through. "I wished to extend an olive branch," Her green eyes flashed with veiled ambitions, swirled with unhidden cunning. "Even if you do not become the Pyrite heiress your new reputation is nothing to mock. Times are different from when our grandparents went to Hogwarts." A graceful movement pulled Hermione into a semi-embrace, "I have always been watching. Waiting for a moment when it would prove advantageous to befriend the brightest witch of our age."

Somewhere a camera flashed forcing the muggleborn to preen next to an incredibly photogenic Greengrass. "My suspicions have proven themselves nothing short of well-founded. You are a friend worth making." Something told the almost thirteen year old witch that Daphne's understanding of the word 'friend' was very different from Harry Potter's. "Now I bid you farewell. Consider my offer, and find me on the train if you intend to accept," In a flash of golden hair the Slytherin spun away, "Ta-ta darling."

Hermione found herself feeling so disoriented that the room started to spin. Hands pressed into her shoulders as Ministry attendants dragged her towards a side room from which she was to enter the stage. Cedric Diggory, Cordelia's motivations, Daphne Greengrass, the silky voice, and her upcoming speech all whirled together into a nauseating combination. "You will step onto the stage," A woman instructed the girl, even though her eyes must have been incredibly unfocused. "You shall give your speech, and then Minister Fudge shall honor you." A parting good luck did nothing to quease Hermione's nerves as she found herself standing alone. Anger suddenly flooded throughout her stomach like a tidal wave. She was expected to address a pureblood audience like some stringed marionette. Singing pretty words of appreciation for their gracious decision to deign to award an Honor of Merlin.

Nicholas Flamel's letter crinkled inside of her shoe. Daphne Greengrass was right, and so was Cordelia. Times were changing, but Hermione also had a responsibility to uphold her House's reputation. Taking the door opening as a cue she slipped out of the sparsely furnished side room. Where before the stage was an exciting new frontier it now felt like a prison. As though Hermione were trapped in a exhibit whilst a crowd peered curiously through the glass. She then proceeded to sweep forwards until standing next to Minister Fudge on the podium.

Cameras flashed and she instantly moved into the position her grandmother had taught her to hold when a wizarding photo was being taken. Pushing her hands on her waist Hermione twisted gently back and forth, smiling brightly, her dress swirling around her photographers seemed to work themselves into a frenzy, snapping photos rapidly. The flashing lights exploded bombastically leaving her momentarily blinded. Then it all stopped when the cameras stopped. The only area still illuminated with light was the podium.

Minister Fudge began to give a speech. Hermione suspected that the stage was charmed since his voice was magically amplified yet he held no wand to his throat. He recounted the terror of the war against Lord Voldemort, how many lives and prestigious families were room was grim in silence, then he told the story that she knew all too well, how she had defeated the Dark Lord, in her first year at Hogwarts no less. Everyone erupted into applause and several daring photographers snapped some more images of her. "NOW I SHALL AWARD MISS GRANGER WITH HER HONOR OF MERLIN, _FIRST CLASS."_

Cordelia had warned her that when the moment came it would be difficult to even move, but Hermione pushed herself to smile even more brightly. Despite the aching cold which was spreading throughout her facial muscles. Fudge gripped her hand, leading her to the middle of the podium with him where a large pedestal sat. On top of it was a crown made of solid gold and silver with beautiful gems adorning the surface. Hermione glanced at her own dress and decided she was rather sick of gemstones. Fudge stood before her and asked, "DO YOU, HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER, ACCEPT THIS GREAT HONOR AND VOW TO REPRESENT THIS COUNTRY AS A PILLAR OF HONOR AND EXCELLENCE?"

The long anticipated moment had finally arrived. "Merlin created this prestigious organization for the betterment of mugglekind," She began in an almost whispery voice, drawing a nice contrast to Fudge's bellowing tenor. Despite the drop in volume it was apparent that the crowd could hear her words with perfect clarity. "In recent centuries we have allowed a mighty institution, initiated by the greatest wizard in recorded history, to blacken with corruption," She kept any accusatory language from coloring the words. These were facts which needed to be stated. No emotion could be allowed to pass through or the reporters would dismiss her as some uppity muggleborn. "No longer is this award about making the world a more harmonious place, for its intentions have been mutated by greed. Deny these words as foundless claims." Both brown eyes glimmered with defiance, "But remember those few Death Eaters now rotting in Azkaban. Recipients of Honors of Merlin only because of their considerable fortunes, as well as the pureness of their blood."

Not a voice could be heard now. Hermione Granger held the entire Wizarding World within the palm of her hand. Circling in front of Minister Fudge she continued to stare into the darkness, "I only accept this defiled Honor because there are no other muggleborns who could do so. No one else of my blood status who our government would deign to recognize." Sweeping into a controlled pace the witch smiled cynically, "I accept this award because I am unafraid to fight the injustice of purism which has permeated this society so deeply. No matter what stands in my way I will do what is right, and hopefully set a precedent for others to do the same. Whether it is protecting the Philosophers Stone, which Albus Dumbledore chose to hide in a school of all places, or destroying Lord Voldemort's bodily vessel."

Dropping gracefully into a kneel she tilted her head serenely towards the very high ceiling of the Reception Hall. "I accept my Honor of Merlin, Minister Fudge," A thoughtful pause, "I do indeed swear that I shall represent this country as a pillar of honor and excellence."

"Then-," Fudge fumbled verbally after her passionate speech, "I HEREBY GRANT HERMIONE GRANGER A HONOR OF MERLIN, FIRST CLASS." With another flick of his wand the glittering crown was levitated upon the girl's beautifully braided hair. Some in the audience did not clap as she stood. Others set the entire hall thumping with roaring applause. Cameras flashed again, Hermione preened absentmindedly while shaking Cornelius Fudge's hand. She was far from caught up in being among the few muggleborns to receive such an award, or imagining what the prize would do to lift her bank balance at Gringotts.

No, Hermione Jean Granger was wondering fearfully if she alone could do Merlin proud by upholding his legacy.

OOOO

Next Chapter: The Wizened-Gamot.


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